


The Joy of Exhibitionism

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [21]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Humor, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Multi, Orgy, Prank Wars, Public Sex, The Master Has Issues, Voyeurism, extreme pettiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 10:07:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27349411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: There are, of course, other Time Lords in the Matrix. Whom the Doctor and the Master only notice when it’s convenient to their mutual obsession with each other. Per usual.Various incarnations of the Doctor and the Master sneak into other Time Lords’ mindscapes in order to fulfil their exhibitionist kinks.
Relationships: Eighth Doctor/The Master (Macqueen), Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Fourth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Sixth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor (Academy Era)/The Master (Academy Era), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), The War Doctor/The War Master (Jacobi), Third Doctor/Fifth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Third Doctor/The Master (Ainley), Third Doctor/The Master (Delgado), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan), Twelfth Doctor/Missy
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 16
Kudos: 59





	1. Academy Era Doctor/Master & Borusa

**Author's Note:**

> This story has turned into a monster. It originally was only supposed to be 6/Ainley pranking the Rani, but then I kept getting ideas for people all the other different Doctor/Master combos could prank and how that would play out, so this story will basically be variations on a theme with each chapter a different Doctor/Master incarnation pulling a similar trick. I'll be posting on a Monday/Wednesday/Friday schedule until all the chapters are up.
> 
> Also, this chapter has the Doctor and Master's Academy-aged selves having sex. They're probably barely 100 years old in this! *gasp* SCANDAL! You have been forewarned.

It was exactly the sort of nonsense you’d expect from adolescents.

The adolescent Master had the adolescent Doctor up against the corridor wall, his tongue as far down the Doctor’s throat as it would go, and nearly went cross-eyed with stupid lust when the Doctor sneaked a hand down the front of his pants. Then, as soon as the Doctor’s palm gripped around him _just_ right, the two of them heard arguing voices approaching.

They froze, wide-eyed. The Doctor put the index finger of his free hand to his lips and proceeded to use his other hand to very effectively guide the Master around the corner into a side nook. The two of them froze there, pressed tightly together in the dark, holding their breath.

In the corridor, a matched pair of their future incarnations passed by.

“—don’t see the point if you’re just going to vaporise everyone I talk to,” the future Doctor sounded exasperated.

“I don’t vaporise _every_ one you talk to,” the future Master sounded equally peeved. “Only the Earth girls. The _pretty_ Earth girls.”

“You’re being entirely unreasonable about the whole matter,” the future Doctor insisted, and paused right outside the nook the young Doctor and Master were still hiding in.

The adolescent Doctor instinctively squeezed the portion of the adolescent Master’s anatomy that he just happened to be holding, which was – of course – still the adolescent Master’s cock.

The adolescent Master shut his eyes tight and bit his lower lip, and came _hard_ in his pants, all over the First Doctor’s palm.

When he came to, the adolescent Doctor had his free hand over the Master’s mouth to stop him from moaning at his recent exertion. He pulled his other hand, now sticky, from the Master’s pants and gave it an annoyed shake, which did absolutely nothing to remove the dribbles of come all over it.

The Master thought that it was possibly the most perfect moment he would ever experience in all his lives, and he felt sorry (read: smug) for all his other selves that they hadn’t got to experience it.

In the meantime, the future Doctor and Master apparently hadn’t heard anything because they continued bickering down the corner, until they eventually turned into one of the numbered doors.

Or, at least, that was what their adolescent incarnations assumed. The future Doctor and Master had, of course, heard the very audible muffled orgasm. But, seeing as various versions of the Doctor and Master having sex was perfectly commonplace in the Matrix, they hadn’t paid it any heed. The adolescent Doctor and Master could not, of course, fathom that they would ever find sex so commonplace, nor were they fully aware yet that they weren’t somehow many times cleverer than their later selves. Such was the folly of youth.

In any case, as the adolescent Doctor and Master were not, in fact, the centre of everyone’s universe the way they believed they were, they were left to come down from the Master’s unexpected and premature ejaculation in peace.

“That,” the Master panted, leaning his head back against the wall behind him, “was _hot_.”

“That,” the Doctor insisted, finally wiping his hand clean on the Master’s Academy robes, “was _messy_.”

“Messy and hot,” the Master compromised.

“For you, maybe,” the Doctor pouted. “I didn’t even get to come!”

The Master opened his eyes where they’d fallen shut in rapture earlier and fixed the Doctor with such a covetous look that the Doctor suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to run to the far reaches of the universe for his chastity. Before he had a chance, the Master was upon him, pinning him back against the far wall, his hand up the Doctor’s robes, fumbling earnestly until… _there_.

The Doctor whimpered and moaned against the Master’s mouth as the Master stroked his cock to completion in…well, very few seconds. Embarrassingly few seconds, their future selves would agree, but for this Doctor it felt absolutely perfect.

The Master snickered against the Doctor’s cheek as he came down.

“What?” the Doctor demanded.

“The look on your face when you…” The Master made an over-exaggerated ‘O’ expression.

“Like you were any better!” the Doctor huffed.

“I,” the Master concluded with supreme hubris, “was _excellent_.” He took that moment to finally remove his hand from the Doctor’s pants and slowly brought his fingers up to his mouth. His first lick was tentative, but he saw the way the Doctor’s eyes widened, and so he flicked his tongue out to wrap around each of his fingers in turn, laving them clean like a particularly contented feline.

The Doctor groaned at the sight and was immediately hard again.

The Master raised one pointed eyebrow at his reaction. “So soon?”

“I just need… _more_ ,” the Doctor said inarticulately.

The Master considered him for a moment and then got a very wicked glint in his eye. “I just got an idea.”

“Oh no,” the Doctor said.

“From when our future selves almost caught us.”

“Oh no.”

“And how that made it _better_.”

“Oh no.”

“Come on.” The Master held out a hand. “You’ll see.”

The Doctor took it because he hadn’t learned how not to yet. “I don’t want old-me to see me having sex. That’s weird.”

“Old-you isn’t the only person here.”

“Old- _you_ , then,” the Doctor insisted.

The Master gave him an exasperated look. “Do you work at being that incoherent, or does it just come naturally to you?”

The Doctor glared at him, which might have been a good deal more effective if the Master hadn’t just pulled him into his arms. One of the Master’s hands settled firmly on the Doctor’s hip. All he’d have to do was move it down and back just a little and… The Doctor blushed, embarrassingly.

“Old- _me_ isn’t the only person here, either,” the Master continued, oblivious to how absolutely stupid the motion of his thumb was making the Doctor. “I’ve got something even _better_ in mind.”

“Okay,” the Doctor said hoarsely, at which point it became very obvious indeed exactly how stupid the Doctor really was for the Master.

Maybe he’d get better at that with age.

But probably not.

***

Getting anywhere in the TARDIS was an adventure. Their adolescent selves, of course, were not yet fully trained and qualified to operate the ship, and their oldest selves from right at the end of their current incarnations weren’t much better, truth be told.

They landed with a crash and bang at an odd angle, such that the TARDIS tipped over against the corridor wall and ended up stuck like that at roughly 45°. Coughing from the smoke (the Doctor had not yet entirely worked out how to fly his ship without setting it on fire, not that they ever really _did_ , per se), the two of them scrambled from the TARDIS into the empty atrium.

All was serene, dark, and contemplative: a perfect place of meditation, the way a Matrix mindscape was supposed to be.

The Doctor and Master each put a finger to their lips for quiet and then crept carefully into the centre of the room. There sat an item of furniture they knew only too well from their childhoods.

The Doctor cast a furtive look around to make sure they were alone and then hopped right up onto the Academy Headmaster’s desk. The Master grinned at him lasciviously and pushed him back down onto the hard surface. Their hands both scrambled to hike their robes up, and then the Master fitted himself between the Doctor’s spread legs so that the two of them could grind their cocks up against each other, and—

Oh, it _was_ better this way, the Doctor was forced to concede. The thrill of doing this where they absolutely should not, the danger of being caught any second, the frantic rush as the Master rubbed against him, desperate to bring them both off quickly before…

“I say, who’s there?” a well-remembered voice demanded.

The Doctor turned his head on the desk to see Borusa’s eyes widen in disbelief when he caught sight of the two of them and exactly what they were _doing_. Then, in the next moment, the Doctor came harder and faster than he ever had before, pulling the Master along with him for the ride.

“ _You two_!” Headmaster Borusa sputtered in horrified indignation. “How are you even—? What are you—?”

The Doctor grabbed the Master’s hand, gave Borusa a devil-may-care grin, and _ran_ , pulling the Master along behind him back to the TARDIS.

“You _dare_ disgrace the tranquillity of the afterlife!” Borusa chased after them, but fortunately he was rather aged in his current incarnation, and the Doctor and the Master were both stupidly young.

They got back to the TARDIS in breathless laughter. The Master slammed the doors shut behind them and held them closed with his back, while Borusa banged on the door. The Doctor grinned back at the Master unabashedly, flicked switches seemingly at random and finally, by pure luck, got the TARDIS to dematerialise.

“That,” the Doctor concluded delightedly, “was the best prank we’ve _ever_ played on him!”


	2. Sixth Doctor/Ainley!Master & the Rani

“That,” the Doctor explained smugly to his assembled incarnations, “is the best prank I’ve ever played on him.”

The purpose of the assemblage had been, of course, to discuss the fact that the Masters were very definitely up to something of late – the Doctors were sure of it! – and not sexcapades from their Academy days. However, being the Doctor, they immediately allowed themselves to be derailed by anything and everything remotely interesting that came along their way.

“Sheer poppycock!” the Sixth Doctor huffed, giving his youngest incarnation a disparaging look. “Such a pedantic, puerile prank! Why, in my day, with a few cross-dimensional fire beetles and a little luck, we would break into the headmaster’s office and—”

“Okay, boomer,” the adolescent Doctor said, yawning deliberately.

“Boomer? _Boomer_!” the Sixth Doctor boomed. “Why, _you’re_ the oldest one here, temporally speaking of course.”

“Although, technically,” the Fourth Doctor chimed in, looking either amused or bored by the antics before him, “he’s also the youngest, too.”

The Sixth Doctor glared at him. “You’re not helping,” he pouted.

“Yeah, but when does he ever help?” the Thirteenth Doctor said. “And, honestly, if the shoe fits: Okay, boomer.”

The Sixth Doctor sputtered some more. “See? This is why I don’t associate with myself! A bunch of witless wisenheimers, the lot of me, with only myself as a radiant pinnacle of sagacity amidst of sea of banal, self-absorbed—”

“Blah, blah,” the First Doctor said. “You’re just chicken.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it…” Half a dozen Doctors winced in unison at those words said to their Sixth.

“ _Chicken_?!” A nearly hysterical yelp broke off the end of the Sixth Doctors words. “I can assure you, I am as far from common poultry as you are from a lick of common sense or perspective in life. My anti-gallinaceous traits are multiform in both their variety and profundity. Why, just the other day—”

“Bok, bok, bok!” the First Doctor clucked, flapping his arms with bent elbows like stunted wings.

“My,” the Seventh Doctor said, unimpressed, “we’re absolutely scintillating today, aren’t we?”

The War Doctor was rubbing his hand over his eyes as if unable to bear looking at any of him. “Did this meeting have a purpose?”

“Possibly,” the Fourth Doctor agreed. “Once. Originally…” He held up a hand to silence the others, a hitch of laughter caught in his throat at the supremely ridiculous turn their First and Sixth were taking now.

“If you’re not a chicken, then prove it!” the First Doctor insisted, in that time-tested method of adolescent coercion.

“I can assure you, boy, I have nothing to prove to you nor anybody else.” The Sixth Doctor hooked his thumbs under his suspenders and strutted about in a manner that absolutely didn’t resemble an over-stuffed game bird at _all_.

The First Doctor cackled to himself like the absolute shit he was, which caused the Sixth Doctor’s face to turn a fetching shade of magenta.

“Good meeting,” the Eighth Doctor commented lackadaisically. “Why were we meeting again?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” the Third huffed, face pinched in irritation at himselves.

“We did _have_ an agenda,” the Tenth Doctor pointed out, warily watching his Sixth self prance off while his First snickered away in the opposite direction. “Well, of sorts…”

“Right.” The Twelfth Doctor clapped his hands and rose abruptly from his seat. “Enough of that, then. Meeting adjourned.”

“You’re not the boss of—” the Fifth Doctor began, but everyone else was already dispersing. “Oh, never mind,” he said wearily. “It probably wasn’t important, after all…”

***

“Can you believe it?” the Sixth Doctor was still railing some eons later. “Me! _Me_! Why, I haven’t a craven bone in my body. The sheer gall of me! I must say, I thought back when I was him that perhaps you had overreacted just a bit in your seething lust for vengeance, but now that I’ve witnessed for myself what an insufferable, insouciant brat I was, you are retroactively entirely vindicated, my dear.”

The Thirteenth Master, lounging back against the TARDIS console in Tremas’ stolen body, rolled his eyes. “Thank you for that much, at least.”

“You’re most welcome. At least _someone_ around here has manners. Unlike my own personal _enfant terrible_. Why, the very nerve of me! Be-fowling my own reputation like that, as it were… I have half a mind to—”

“What?” the Master cut him off slyly, because at this rate their whole night was likely to degrade into him listening to the Sixth Doctor kvetch endlessly, with no sex in sight. And, of course, being the Master, he could hardly do anything but turn the situation to his advantage. “Prove him wrong?” He stepped into the Doctor’s personal space, rubbing against him deliberately as he caught the Doctor by the braces and pulled him back to the console. “Who knows? It might even be fun.”

The Sixth Doctor’s expression turned beautifully from self-righteous indignation straight to flummoxed, horny mess. “Y-Y-You mean… You would…?” A dazed look entered his eyes, and he licked his lips suddenly.

“Perhaps nothing so jejune as pranking our old headmaster,” the Master suggested, walking his fingers down the Doctor’s puffed-up chest and earning himself a sharp, excited gasp when he skirted over the bulge at the front of the Doctor’s trousers. “A more _sophisticated_ target might be in order.”

“And how,” the Doctor asked warily, because he knew the Master’s conniving inclinations only too well, “would you define ‘sophisticated’?”

The Master’s eyes darkened with rage. “There is _someone_ ,” he spat out, “I can think of who was foolish enough to doubt that you belonged to me, through and through.”

“A revenge game, is it, then?”

“Oh Doctor,” the Master smirked and led him along by his pants, “when is it ever _not_?”

***

The lights in the laboratory were dimmed down, the chromosomal extractor hummed contentedly as it deconstructed its (sometimes-screaming) subjects into raw biodata, and the main computer’s fan hummed with a low, comforting thrum as it spat out new potentially monstrous genetic hybrids.

The only visible occupant at the moment was the Fourth Rani, in neat Gallifreyan lab coat and protective gear, leaning over the Harverite formosaur that was strapped and sedated on the medical table. It squirmed once, a purely autonomic response, when she inserted a syringe into its muscle to inject her latest DNA-splicing formula.

That accomplished, she sat back and watched as her formula began to take effect. However, just as the temporal adaptations she’d inserted into the formosaur’s genome began to ripple along its skin, a very loud bang echoed throughout the laboratory.

The Rani rose from her seat and turned in the direction of the noise. There was a pause and then a crash. Her hearts sank: that had sounded very much like one of the embryo tanks falling over and shattering.

She hurried in the direction of the adjoining lab. None of her other selves were supposed to be here at this hour, but the Third Raja had never been able to refrain from tinkering with others’ experiments, and the Sixth Rani was always trying to steal her research. She grabbed a displacement bomb on the way; the Matrix wouldn’t allow her to kill her other selves, of course, but she could certainly banish them back to their own sections of her mind-lab.

However, the sound that greeted her when she passed through the decontamination chamber caused her to freeze in her tracks. Had that been…?

A second moan, louder and even more wanton, reverberated through the clinical-white corridors while the decontamination beam sterilised her for the inner chamber.

She rushed to the control panel to bypass the full sequence: this wasn’t just herself mucking about with her other incarnations’ experiments; something was seriously awry in her specimens’ containment!

Some loud grunting sounds followed. Frankly, it sounded like several protoceratops in rut.

She pulled a tranquiliser gun from the wall as well, just in case, and this time ran full out into the lab to discover—

“Oh no, it _can’t_ be!”

In retrospect, she felt that she could be forgiven for gaping in stunned disbelief when she burst onto the scene only to discover that, rather than two primitive beasts mating, she instead had two members of her own supposedly-evolved species copulating vigorously atop one of the lab tables. Never mind that Time Lords should be above such petty lusts! Never mind that it shouldn’t be physically possible for any Time Lords, other than herselves, to enter her mind-lab. Most important of all was:

“You imbeciles! That’s a _sterile_ workstation! Didn’t you ruin enough of my experiments while we were alive?” On pure instinct, she chucked the displacement bomb with her full might at the Doctor’s imbecilic curly-haired head. It bonked off the top of his cranium with an exceptionally satisfying sound, rather like a hollow coconut.

“Ouch!” The Doctor looked up from where he had his multi-coloured coat flared about him like a particularly obnoxious toxic butterfly. “Watch it! An intellect such as mine cannot be damaged by—”

Beneath him, the Master – in contrasting velvet black – moaned again (ridiculous, undignified noise!) and squirmed as if to emphasise the abasement he was permitting to be inflicted upon his body. In fact, if the Rani didn’t know better, that was that smug, triumphant grin he got when he thought he’d bested someone. She got a headache just trying to fathom how any supposedly sentient being could possibly consider being buggered by the most loudly outrageous Doctor in existence to be any kind of triumph whatsoever. Only in the Master’s warped mind…

The Rani took aim with her tranquiliser gun. The Doctor’s eyes widened in alarm. And the Master – deranged maniac that he was – only grabbed the Doctor’s lapels and yanked the Doctor down onto him even harder.

“ _Me_!” the Master insisted. “You only look at me!” He forcibly crashed the Doctor’s lips down on his, so that the lower halves of their faces formed an unappetising mishmash of wet slurpy turmoil.

The Rani fired her dinosaur-strength tranquiliser dart straight into the Master’s twisted, conniving skull.

Unfortunately, the Doctor had marginally more common sense and rolled the pair of them off the dissection table, just in the nick of time.

The Rani could hear their groans when they landed behind the table and tried very hard not to think about the fact that at least one of those groans hadn’t sounded pained at all. Leave it to the Master to be getting off on this.

She reloaded and swept around to one side so that she could get a new firing angle.

“Oh, oh, _Doctor_!” the Master shouted out unnecessarily loudly.

The Rani caught a flash of someone’s bare thigh, pulled the trigger, but the metal table leg got in the way and knocked her shot wide.

A great, jubilant “ _yes!_ ” sounded from behind the table, followed by the Master’s characteristic deranged chuckle.

“I am going to dissect you both. Slowly,” the Rani threatened, got a new shot, and fired. “The Matrix may not allow me to kill you, but it will be a fun little experiment to see how long I can keep your bodies flayed alive.”

This time, however, they’d apparently finally finished their obscene coupling. The two of them scrambled away, holding up their trousers with both hands as they did so, and made for the Doctor’s TARDIS that the Rani could now see in the far corner.

“Oh no, you don’t!” she shouted after them.

This time the Doctor had the unholy luck to be running right behind a pillar just as she would have hit him. The Master dove for the door, and the Doctor crashed squarely into his back, bursting the doors open as he did so. The Rani lined up her last shot, fired, and…

“Typical,” she spat with disgust when the doors shut just in time, and the TARDIS swiftly dematerialised. “Just typical.” She sighed and looked wearily at her now thoroughly contaminated lab.

***

Back in the TARDIS, the Master couldn’t seem to stop cackling. Or rubbing up against the Doctor affectionately. The latter was quite distracting.

The Doctor had never seen him quite like this before, almost submissive to the Doctor’s touches. Usually this Master had a distinct bent towards the demanding and disagreeable. Now, however, he curled up into the Doctor’s arms quite adoringly.

“Well, hello to you, too,” the Doctor couldn’t help but try his luck and stroke his fingers through the Master’s hair, then down his spine to the small of his back.

The Master merely leaned into him and all but purred. “That, my dear Doctor,” he confessed with heartsfelt candour, “was exquisite.”

The Doctor’s ego couldn’t help but swell just a bit at that. “Yes, well, although I’m hardly one to brag,” he lied, “my skills as a lover are renowned for good reason, and—”

“Oh, don’t remind me of your human girls now,” the Master grumbled, and started pressing tender kisses against his throat. “Take me to bed, instead,” he ordered. “Now.”

The Doctor retreated with all due haste to the nearest TARDIS bedroom, Master in hand. One didn’t dally when the Master was in such a receptive mood, after all.

The Master lay beneath him with an affability and ease that belied the Doctor’s repeated extensive efforts to have him just like that over the eons. The Master hummed and sighed and rocked softly against the Doctor and let the Doctor have him every which way.

“Ah, my dear…” the Doctor sighed rapturously, overcome by the sweetness of their coupling. “You have no idea how delighted I am to have pleased you through and through.” He drove his cock as far through as he could with eminently satisfying results.

The Master clung to him, eyes squeezed shut, and entreated hesitantly, “I’m not mad.”

“Well, now,” the Doctor corrected, stroking into him sweetly, “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“She said…” The Master gasped when the Doctor struck his pleasure centres with superb skill. The Doctor did it again, and only on the third thrust did the Master recover himself enough to speak clearly again. “She said that I was mad.” The words seemed to flow out of him then, genuine and rushed and honest, as if the Doctor had finally flipped some fundamental switch in their relationship. “I was mad to chase you. You didn’t want me. You never could want me. I’m not…” The Doctor kissed him to intersplice the litany that clearly pulled at barely healed-over scars in the Master’s psyche. “I’m not worthy,” the Master said in barely a whisper. “Nothing you want. Mad to think I ever could be.”

“Well,” the Doctor scoffed, “we showed her, then, didn’t we?” He struck true and deep, setting off the Master’s orgasm as if on cue. “You are mad in many ways, my dear,” the Doctor held him through it, “but not in that one.”

“Doctor!” the Master gasped in absolution.


	3. Eighth Doctor/Macqueen!Master & the Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains some vague spoilers for the end of 'Ravenous' and probably requires some basic knowledge of who the Eleven is, as well.

“Well,” the Fourteenth Master said, “this is…cosy.”

“I’ll admit,” the Eighth Doctor agreed, “it’s not what I was expecting.”

He eyed the opulent hotel suite askance. It looked normal in its basics, but for the fact that the room was stretched out almost comically along its long axis to accommodate far too many duplicates of the exact same king-sized bed. The overall effect was something between a military barracks and a funhouse mirror gallery.

In point of fact, there were only eleven beds in total, the pair of them determined upon counting.

“I think this is actually rather fascinating, for a mindscape,” the Doctor said. “Do you think it’s like this because—”

“Don’t know, don’t care. With this _individual_ ’s mind,” the Master spat out the word ‘individual’ with supreme distaste, “I suppose it’s only to be expected.”

“One can only suppose,” the Doctor agreed, and looked around. “Which bed, do you think?” The Doctor patted the pillow by the closest headboard.

“No idea. This one’s nearest the door.”

“Right.” The Doctor hopped onto the mattress, and only a second later the Master joined him, lying on his side propped up on one elbow and looking up at the Doctor with…well, either bedroom eyes or murderous eyes. Definitely one or the other. The Doctor licked his lips and moved to lie down beside the Master so that they were at eye level. “Which of us is topping?” he asked lightly.

“Oh, you!” the Master teased and bopped him on the nose with his index finger. “You, my sweet,” he said, low and seductive, leaning in to steal a quick kiss from the Doctor’s lips, “are the object of desire in this particular _menace_ à troi.”

“Ah, yes, I see where this is going.” The Doctor rolled onto his back at the pressure from the Master’s hands and allowed the Master’s body to cover his. “You’re going to bugger me possessively, aren’t you? A bit crass, I should think.”

“The crassest.” The Master vanished the Doctor’s clothes and then, after careful consideration of just how much he wanted to display to their current target, vanished all of his own as well. The disadvantages of fleeing naked would be more than made up for by the satisfaction of showing off _everything_ that only the Master would ever have.

“Promises, promises,” the Doctor chided.

“I’ll be as crass as you like, Shnookums,” the Master taunted, and thrusted up into the Doctor sharply.

“ _Shnookums_?” the Doctor repeated in distaste. “When I said ‘crass’, I didn’t mean nauseating. And, wait, hold on. I’m lying on something sharp. Just let me…” He and the Master squirmed around together, because of course the Master wouldn’t do something as obvious as _withdraw_ for the second or two the Doctor needed. Finally, the Doctor pulled the offending object out from beneath him. “Er…what do you think it is?”

The Master blinked at it. It was approximately two feet tall with a solid base, seven gold-plated columns that supported an oversized cup up top, and crowned by an apple surrounded with what looked like planetary rings. The sheer baffling nature of the eyesore actually succeeded in distracting him from fucking the Doctor’s brains out long enough to guess, “Some kind of trophy? Maybe?”

“It does resemble the logo for the Iurian Cricket League,” the Doctor agreed, and then groaned when the Master twisted inside him just the way he liked. “Except for the apple.” He grunted into the Master’s cheek at the force of the next thrust. “And the planetary rings.”

“Throw. It. Away,” the Master punctuated his thrusts with annoyed precision.

“Cheerfully.” The Doctor tossed it aside and used his now-free hands to pull the Master’s mouth down onto his for a passionate kiss, and— “I hate to say it.” The Doctor pulled away with a wince.

“Then don’t.” The Master glared at him.

The Doctor squirmed. “There’s something sticking out from under my pillow,” he insisted. “It’s jabbing me right in the—”

The Master, unable to tolerate anything other than his own self jabbing the Doctor, reached around the Doctor to yank it free.

“Thank you ever so, darling,” the Doctor said with relief. “Oh dear. Is that a Kalzot mind-rendering opal?”

“I do believe it is,” the Master agreed.

“Weren’t there only three ever created in all the universe?”

“I seem to recall the same.”

“Do you know what I think?” the Doctor said.

“What?”

“I think we’re in the wrong bed.”

“Oh?”

“This bed clearly belongs to…”

“…A kleptomaniac?” the Master finished for him.

“Just so,” the Doctor agreed. “Do you want to move to the—ah!”

“Fuck it,” the Master said, and did. “I’ll have you right here, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Oh, by all means,” the Doctor agreed magnanimously, lay back, and began moaning as loudly and wantonly as he could manage. In point of fact, loudly enough that he was quite sure that the voices on the far side of the door had now heard him.

“—Let me kill them!” a familiar voice said, muffled through the door.

“Shut up, Six!” another, technically identical but also subtly different, familiar voice said.

“Can’t you all leave well enough alone?” an almost-rational version of the same voice asked.

“Oh, enough of this indecision!” another version of that voice said, and the door burst open upon…

The Eleven.

And the Eleven.

And the Eleven, and the Eleven, and…well, you get the picture. The Eleven burst in, seemingly Eleven clones of him.

The Doctor and the Master froze mid-coitus, stunned at this startling twist.

“I knew I didn’t want to see,” one of the Elevens said – the one whose voice was pitched like the Eight talking with the Eleven’s voice – and he turned directly back out at the sight of the Doctor and the Master in their entirely deliberate state of coitus interruptus. So much for the one rational personality of the Eleven.

“That’s _my_ bed!” the Eleven with the intonations of the Nine said. “Can’t you keep _your_ strange fetishes out of _my_ bed?” He smacked the Eleven who’d approached closest to the bed on the arm. “And…” He raced over and snatched up the Kalzot mind-rendering opal, clutching it lovingly to his chest. “They messed with my collection!”

“Messed all over your collection is more like it,” the Eleven that sounded vaguely like the Three snickered.

“Oh, shut up!” the – “Seven?” the Doctor mouthed a guess at the Master; the Master nodded in response – Seven-version of the Eleven shot back. “No one cares about your collection: it’s all meaningless anyway. You can generate anything you want!”

That seemed to appease the Nine-version of the Eleven, who – opal still clutched in hand – drifted out of the room. Presumably to summon and hoard the entire Ursiron Nebula, or similar.

“Now”—there was no mistaking the Six-version of the Eleven, even within a flock of Elevens: he was the one wielding what looked like a dangerously sharp miniature scimitar—“will you all _finally_ let me kill them?”

“No killing them.” That weariness could only come from the actual Eleven, who was the Eleven who had come in at the head of the herd and was now standing at the foot of the bed, hands on either sides of his head, fingers massaging circles into his temples, gaping down at the Doctor and the Master in stunned disbelief.

In turn, the Doctor and the Master continued to watch the all-Eleven melodrama with raised eyebrows, having half forgotten that the Master was still very firmly inside the Doctor, amidst the absolute madness.

“You never let me have any fun!” the Six-Eleven complained.

“The Eleven-Eleven’s correct,” the Seven-Eleven said. “More important: how did they jump Matrix mindscapes? If we can figure out the mechanism—”

“We can what?” the Two-Eleven said snidely. “Write up a whole series of scientific papers on intra-Matrix mind dynamics?”

“Oh, I suppose _you_ would rather bribe and smarm half of Gallifrey’s corpses into electing you to the High Council of the Afterlife,” the Seven-Eleven retorted.

In the meantime, the Six-Eleven lunged violently and made it halfway through the pile-up of Elevens in the doorway, mini-scimitar brandished. It looked like it had some sort of staser attached.

“Can’t the rest of you get him out of here?” the real-Eleven asked helplessly.

A half dozen Elevens held the Six-Eleven back, until one of the Elevens – “Ten?” the Master guessed, which seemed reasonable – said in a calm, mesmerising voice, “Now, now, there’s no need for violence. Let’s put the Nine-Eleven’s edged-vaporiser down, and step back out into the atrium, and you and all the other Sixes can…” His voice trailed off into the distance, promising sweet carnage, as he, and the other Elevens, got the Six-Eleven back out, and the door fell shut again.

The only Eleven remaining at that point was the actual Eleven, who was eyeing them up and down a bit too curiously.

“No, don’t tell me,” the Master said dryly, and finally shifted inside the Doctor again at long last, causing a sharp hiss to escape the Doctor’s lips. “Your Matrix incarnations: they’re _recursive_ , aren’t they? One of the One, two of the Two, and so on?”

“Would you believe it’s actually an improvement?” the Eleven shrugged. “Not having all of me inside my head. Well, I suppose _technically_ they all still are, but you know what I mean.”

“Convenient, that.” The Doctor sounded far too blasé, the Master thought, given how exceptionally well the Master had just stroked within him. “You could form your own cricket side. Or football. Rugby might be a bit of a bother, though.”

The Master growled and drove into the Doctor harder this time. “Will you kindly stop rambling about rugby?”

“Why would I even _want_ to play rugby?” the Eleven sounded equally annoyed by the Doctor’s rambling.

“Of course, if you did try for a cricket or football match, who would you play?” the Doctor continued to annoy them both, in fine form. “I suppose you could play the Twelve, and she’d sit out an alternate…”

“The last thing we need is the Twelve coming around here, too,” the Master sighed wearily, resigned to his Doctor’s extreme hopelessness.

The Eleven circled the bed and their naked bodies, licking his lips as he went. “If you want an audience, I have no doubt the Twelve-Eleven will be along shortly. And the Thirteen-Eleven. As they’re both me, I’m confident that they’ll”—he adjusted himself in his pants awkwardly and sat down on the next bed over—“want to watch.”

The Master narrowed his eyes at the Eleven and rocked his hips once, deep, into the Doctor.

The Doctor let out a little gasp in response.

The Eleven’s eyes went wide and dark, and he stared ravenously at the Doctor’s parted lips. “Can I touch?” he asked hopefully.

“Not if you want to keep your hand,” the Master warned, and thrust into the Doctor again.

The Eleven nodded once, nervously. “I don’t suppose I can direct?”

“Take the name ‘the Master’ as your guiding clue there.” The Master circled his hips long and slow, eliciting a series of short, rough pants from the Doctor’s lips.

“But you’ll let me watch?” the Eleven asked raggedly.

“Only you,” the Master agreed. “And only because of the part you so generously – if unintentionally – played in allowing me to wheedle this regeneration cycle out from under the Time Lords’ noses.”

“Delighted to have been of such service – if only unintentionally.” The Eleven grinned with sharp teeth and settled his hand over the front of his trousers.

The Master turned back to the Doctor, who looked as delighted at being naked and flagrant in front of an audience as always, and began hammering him hard.

“Oh,” the Eleven said, eyes fixed with laser-like focus on the Doctor’s red, wet lips as they moaned wantonly, “that is nice.”

“Am I”—the Master ground hard and around in a tight circle, catching all the Doctor’s pleasure centres on his next inward thrust—“going to have to do this with _commentary_?” He shot the Eleven a dirty look.

The Eleven gave him a forced, closed-lipped smile. “If you’re having difficulty _performing_ , I’d be delighted to fill in.”

The Master growled and half lunged for him. However, the Doctor caught the Master by the shoulders and pulled him back to the matter at hand. The Master only stilled when the Doctor clasped the back of his neck in a vice grip and pressed their foreheads together. They stared deep into each other’s eyes, breathing together for one moment.

“Don’t tell me the two of you are just going to _gaze lovingly_ ,” the Eleven said with distaste. “I don’t have all afterlife, you know.”

“This isn’t for your benefit,” the Master snapped back.

“Funny, since you’re both in _my mind_.”

“The other Time Lords,” the Master insisted, “have all had the decency to either try to murder us or shield their virgin eyes. We can hardly be held accountable for _your_ peculiar perversions.”

The Eleven scoffed. “Yes, because _I’m_ the perverted one in this scenario…”

“Gentlemen,” the Doctor cut in, “there’s no need to fight.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you aren’t loving this,” the Eleven taunted him.

“ _Two_ arch-villains, vying for your attentions,” the Master agreed, and returned to moving very slowly in and out of the Doctor’s body.

The Doctor’s eyes went a bit glazed as he lay back and took it.

“He _does_ like being caught in the middle, doesn’t he?” the Eleven said in a breathy voice. He’d risen from the other bed now and was circling the pair of them like a predator, eyeing them from every angle. “Not happy unless he’s got some renegade Time Lord panting after him.”

The Master grunted his agreement into the sensitive skin just behind the Doctor’s ear. “Do you hear that, darling? Someone has accused you of being a massive cock-tease. Almost as if you _enjoy_ your enemies lusting hopelessly after you.”

The Doctor blinked up at him languidly. “Don’t tell me you actually sympathise?” he taunted, hooking one leg around the Master’s waist and driving him in deeper. “You’ll ruin your reputation as a psychopath.”

“Oh dear. Does that mean you won’t love-to-hate me anymore?” the Master asked, wide-eyed.

“Less talking, more fucking,” the Eleven complained, although the talking seemed to be doing something for him as well, given the state of his trousers.

“I don’t take orders from you!” the Master snapped back at him, but he did happen to also snap his hips at the same time, which rather defeated his point.

“Shall I play it up a bit for you both?” the Doctor teased. “Oh no, I have fallen into your clever trap. How horrible for me. What ever shall I do now?” he said perfectly dryly.

The Eleven came on the spot, the kinky bastard.

The Master just gave the Doctor an annoyed look. The Doctor smiled up at him unrepentantly. A pause, and then the corner of the Master’s lips twitched upwards as well. He giggled and buried his head in the crook of the Doctor’s neck and began fucking him properly this time, with no distractions.

“You are the worst, my love,” the Master assured the Doctor as he finally spilled into him.

“You’re quite dreadful yourself,” the Doctor agreed and came with him.

With the way things were going, the Eleven probably came again too, not that either of them were paying much attention by that point. So rude!

***

Afterwards, of course, everything was terribly awkward.

The Eleven just _sat_ there, eyes bright, watching them dress. At some point someone outside tried to open the door, and the voice was clearly the Twelve’s, but the fact that she asked whether she could come in and watch was equally clearly the Eleven.

“Congratulations,” the Master informed their Eleven, “your mind may be more warped than mine.”

“I do try my best,” the Eleven agreed with a grin. “Both of you, feel free to come visit me _anytime_.” He eyed the Doctor up and down hungrily where he was just shrugging back into his jacket.

“Don’t push your luck.” The Master glared at the Eleven, grabbed the Doctor’s hand, and yanked him bodily back into the TARDIS.

The Doctor gave the Eleven a jaunty wave as he went, and the door shut behind him.

“Well, that was a lark,” the Doctor said and came up behind the Master where he stood before the console.

The Master set the coordinates back to their own joint mindscape, and couldn’t wait to get there.

“Oh.” The Doctor sobered at the tension in the Master’s shoulders. “Er…are you…well…” It seemed wrong to ask, but there they were. “…All right?” the Doctor finished weakly.

The Master’s jaw clenched, and he dematerialised and then rematerialised them rather peevishly.

“You didn’t take it personally, I hope?” the Doctor said, teasing the back of the Master’s ear with his lips.

“What is there to take personally?” the Master demanded.

The Doctor hesitated. This wasn’t something they talked about. In fact, they didn’t really talk much about anything, the two of them. They were either having too much fun to bother, or else they had far too much baggage between them that neither of them knew where to start. The Doctor tried anyway. “I know that, at certain points, you’ve felt like _you_ were the one on the outside, looking in…” he began.

“‘Felt like’?” the Master snapped, turning on him sharply. “Shall I tell you what it _felt like_? Watching you with Earth girl after Earth girl? And sometimes not even Earth girls! With _him_! First taking him as enemy, and then nearly as a companion, and then _both at once_?”

“You can’t be jealous,” the Doctor insisted. “Come now, you must know better than _that_.”

“I know better than _your face_ ,” the Master spat petulantly, and stalked back out the TARDIS doors into their room.

The Doctor followed after him wearily. “Oh, you’re impossible to deal with when you get like this. Tell you what: why don’t you conquer a nice star system, and I’ll blunder in cluelessly, and then you can—”

“No,” the Master refused, possibly for the first time ever. “I want to have this out now.”

The Doctor winced. He didn’t exactly do well with these sorts of confrontations. Or any sorts of confrontations, really. Messy things, emotions. And so he did the bravest thing he’d possibly ever done and sat down: “All right. Let’s… _talk_.” He gulped at the very thought.

The Master paced furiously in front of him, and then slower, and then finally, without a word, he threw up his hands in defeat and slumped to sit on the bed beside the Doctor.

“Well,” the Doctor said, “that wasn’t half as bad as I’ve been led to believe.”

“Oh, be quiet,” the Master sighed.

“Would it help if I told you that I’m just as much of a cock-tease to those on the inside as those on the outside?”

The Master snorted. “Not sure I’d believe you. If you’ll recall, I was on the _inside_ just now, and I can quite thoroughly refute your statement.”

“Oh, but dear,” the Doctor teased, and threaded his hand around the Master’s tie, “that’s only for _you_.”

The Master froze and studied him suspiciously. “Do you honestly expect me to believe…?” he trailed off sceptically.

“Did the Eleven look like a Time Lord who’s ever had the satisfaction of touching me?” The Doctor waggled his eyebrows and yanked on the Master’s tie, pulling him down on top of him.

“You little minx!” the Master accused, and let himself tumble forwards. “You _are_ teasing us all on purpose!”

“Well…” The Doctor shrugged. “It’s nice to be wanted,” he added in a low voice, and his eyes flicked down to the Master’s lips.

“Oh, yes,” the Master purred in agreement, and kissed him, “it is indeed.”


	4. Fourth Doctor/Ainley!Master & Goth

“Romana,” the Master suggested.

“What? _No_. She’d kill me!”

“Perhaps you are still unclear on the concept, my dear, but you do realise that your biodata within the Matrix is inviolate?”

“That’s what you say,” the Fourth Doctor said, jabbing one forefinger into the Master’s black-velvet jacket.

“If it weren’t, surely I’d have killed you by now,” the Master retorted with a strained smile.

“Oh, surely,” the Doctor agreed. “However, last I checked, you’re not a Matrix Lord.”

“Romana’s not a Matrix Lord, either,” the Master said with a weary sigh.

“How do you know? She was Lord President, after all.”

“ _You_ were Lord President.”

“Yes, well, no one’s perfect.”

The Master felt a headache come on in a way that could only be provoked by arguing in increasingly futile circles with the Fourth Doctor. “Fine, you win. Not Romana. Who, then?”

The Doctor shrugged helplessly. “It’s your game.”

“Your First incarnation literally came up with it!” the Master insisted, exasperated.

“So we’ve been led to believe. However, I feel that it sounds suspiciously like one of your terrible ideas.”

“I feel,” the Master retorted, “that you’re paranoid.”

“I might be,” the Doctor agreed. “But, then again, you _did_ kill me, after all.”

“Clearly not enough,” the Master grumbled, and spun the chronometer on the TARDIS console at random. “Fine, we’ll call the whole thing off.”

“Aren’t you going to call me a chicken?” the Doctor asked hopefully.

“No.” The Master rubbed at his temples. “I’m not going to call you a chicken.”

The Doctor pouted.

“Oh, what now?”

“It’s just that,” the Doctor said, and sauntered over to the console like he owned the place (which, of course, he technically did), “if you don’t call me a chicken, then I won’t be provoked into going through with your ridiculous plan. If my own eyes are to be believed, I’m very susceptible to that sort of thing.” He set some coordinates.

The Master crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the Doctor.

The Doctor looked over at him and raised his eyebrows hopefully.

The Master sighed. “Chicken,” he relented.

The Doctor grinned madly at him, and dematerialised.

***

“Where have you taken us?” the Master demanded, when the Doctor all but skipped out the TARDIS door and into what looked like a pristine white version of the Capital.

The Doctor took a deep, cleansing breath and then announced, apropos of nothing, “Rather lofty, isn’t it, Gallifreyan architecture?”

“Pretentious, some might say.”

“Not a lot of convenient horizontal surfaces.”

“Oh dear,” the Master eyed him askance, “was that a covert suggestion that I take you against a convenient vertical surface instead?”

The Doctor held out his hands magnanimously. “If you feel it absolutely necessary. After all, one must make do…”

The Master had him pressed face-first into a white marble pillar in an instant. “I think you’ll find me quite adaptable,” he growled into the Doctor’s shoulder-blade, and began fumbling with the front of the Doctor’s trousers.

The Doctor wriggled back against the Master in a way that was only mildly helpful, but was also wildly distracting. So very like this Doctor: one never knew exactly where one stood with him.

The Master finally got the Doctor’s pants down far enough. He unfastened his own belt with neat efficiency, pulled out his cock, and was inside his infuriating Doctor in one firm thrust.

“Ah!” the Doctor said, face turned to one side to avoid smashing his nose into the pillar with the force of the Master’s thrusts. “Yes, that’s hitting the spot.”

“Must you talk in circles at all times?” the Master said, and hit that spot again, as requested.

“Must you plot in circles at all times?” the Doctor retorted, and then let out a long low moan when the Master apparently hit that spot very well, indeed.

“My nefarious ‘plot’ that you repeatedly refer to, consists of nothing more than screwing you into this wall before whoever owns this mindscape finds us and raises unholy Cain.”

“Was that an Earth reference?” the Doctor asked. “Oh, very nice. I like a good Earth reference with my buggery.”

“Don’t you ever shut—”

The next instant a shot echoed through the marbled halls with resounding finality. The Doctor dropped like a rock to the floor and, a second later, the Master followed him, having been forcibly pulled free of the Doctor’s body by the impact.

“Doctor!” the Master called out in wide-eyed alarm, and frantically rolled the Doctor over onto his back by his ill-fitting coat.

The Doctor’s eyes were shut and his lips slightly parted. There was a hole through the shoulder of the Doctor’s clothes where, by mere inches, the sniper had missed the Master’s head. Already the red of the Doctor’s blood seeped into the cloth.

The Master forced the power of his mind into bullet hole in the Doctor’s shoulder and _willed_ it closed. Still, the Doctor didn’t stir. The Master’s fingers scrambled for the Doctor’s pulses, found one, and then let out a disgusted cry when the Doctor suddenly opened his eyes wide and winked at the Master with a saucy grin. The Master would’ve had some choice words about the Doctor’s little playacting, but a second shot hit the Master high in the thigh just then.

With supreme will, he glared at the bullet hole until it melted away, leaving the black velvet of his trousers intact once more. However, that had been a good reminder not to dawdle, and he grabbed the Doctor by the scruff of the neck and dove them both behind the pillar to safety.

They leaned back against it, shoulder to shoulder, panting for breath for one moment.

“Ow,” the Doctor said unconvincingly and quite belatedly.

The Master turned to glare at the Doctor. “Tell me,” he demanded, “that you did not take us to Chancellor Goth’s mindscape.”

“Okay,” the Doctor agreed cheerily, “I won’t.”

The Master peered around the edge of the pillar, and another bullet clipped the marble inches from his cheek. He made a judicious retreat. “Then why,” he asked patiently, “is that Chancellor Goth out there right now, shooting at us?”

“Because I took us to Chancellor Goth’s mindscape,” the Doctor answered.

“I told you not to tell me that!” the Master snapped.

“Oops, I forgot,” the Doctor lied.

The Master ran a weary hand down his face. “ _Why_ , of all the places in the Gallifrey-forsaken Matrix, did you take us to _Chancellor Goth’s_ mindscape?”

“Oh, the romance, I suppose.” The Doctor leaned back and sighed nostalgically. “A fond reminder of that time when you tried to hire someone else to assassinate me.”

“You can’t _still_ be upset about that?”

“Well… It did lack that personal touch I’d grown accustomed to…”

“I had other things on my mind! I was literally a rotting corpse!”

“Excuses, excuses…”

“I killed you _personally_ in the end!”

The Doctor beamed at him toothily. “That’s right,” he agreed fondly, “you did.”

“Oh, you’re hopeless!” the Master despaired. “How are we going to get out of here? He has us pinned down, and the TARDIS is over there.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that part, per se,” the Doctor hemmed.

“Oh?” The Master turned to look at him sharply. “Why not?”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed, he hasn’t fired on us in nearly a minute now. That can only mean that he’s relocated to—”

The next shot hit the Master right in the throat. The Doctor tackled him down to the ground.

“If you know of any _other_ means of getting us out of here?” The Doctor winced, presumably because he’d just been shot in the back.

The Master curled his lip in disgust at the whole situation, clawed his fingers into the Doctor’s wild curls, and with a deliberate focused thought dissolved the Doctor into his Matrix data-stream. Another second, and the Master dissolved himself as well. He twined himself about the Doctor like a neat bow and then phased straight through Goth’s firewall and back out into the Matrix at large.

The Doctor was an annoying weight dragging him down. In a real life, he might’ve left the Doctor to his fate. However, he couldn’t bear the thought of destroying any Doctor _permanently_ , and anyway he still hadn’t got his chance to come in this one’s irritating arse.

Thus hobbled, the Master limped the pair of them back to their own mindscape, and reconstructed their bodies – sans bullet holes – with a wayward thought before collapsing back upon his bed.

The Doctor, at least, had the wherewithal to look sheepish.

“You’ll be the death of me yet,” the Master groaned.

“You saved my life,” the Doctor retorted.

“A bout of temporary sanity. It’ll pass, I assure you.”

“Well,” the Doctor flopped onto the mattress beside him, “that’s a relief.” He propped himself up on one elbow and walked the fingers of his other hand down the Master’s chest. “We left my TARDIS, you realise.”

The Master groaned. “I’ll fetch her later. I’m spent from carrying your scatterbrain halfway across the Matrix.”

“No need,” the Doctor assured him. “She’s perfectly capable of finding her own way home. In fact I think I hear her outside now.”

“Good,” the Master sighed. At least that was one less thing to worry about. He closed his eyes for a much-deserved rest.

“You also left…” the Doctor began hesitantly.

The Master cracked open one suspicious eye.

“…My arse.” The Doctor smiled down at him.

The Master groaned. “Now? What, you can’t wait until I’ve recovered?”

“I really can’t.” The Doctor shook his head vigorously.

“If you, my dear, want your arse fucked, then you’ll have to come over here and do it yourself. I’m not moving.”

The Doctor jutted out his lower lip. “I don’t know if I could do that. It doesn’t sound very much like me, does it?”

“It’s either that, or wait until later,” the Master insisted.

The Doctor let out a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, very well.” He rose off the bed and dropped his trousers and then his pants, kicking them haphazardly into one corner of the Master’s bedroom. “But you owe me one.”

“ _I_ owe _you_?” The Master began to be quite outraged, but then the Doctor unzipped his trousers, pulled the Master’s cock free of his pants, and proceeded to sit down right onto it, his scrawny hips straddling the Master’s thighs as he did so.

The Doctor let his head roll back, eyes shut, and began to ride the Master’s cock slowly but surely.

The Master gaped and suddenly found that he had a newfound surge of vigour. Something about this most evasive of Doctors pleasuring himself wantonly upon the Master’s cock, no doubt. He reached up to grasp the Doctor’s hips and guide him faster.

The Doctor, infuriatingly, swatted his hands away. “You’re too tired, remember?” He bounded particularly vigorously, which caused his ridiculous scarf – which he was, of course, still wearing – to spill down over the Master’s face.

The Master swatted away the seemingly endless coils of fabric to find the Doctor grinning down at him unrepentantly. “Bastard,” he accused.

“Now, now,” the Doctor insisted, “you need your rest.” And then he rolled his hips in a way that tore a strangled moan from the Master’s lips. How was it fair that such a vexing Doctor still fitted him so perfectly, drove him so completely out of his mind?

The Doctor grunted suddenly then and picked up the pace, bucking and jouncing atop the Master, his inner walls squeezing the Master’s cock in a series of pulses designed deliberately to bring them both off in a sudden rush.

The Master cried out and came into the Doctor, and the Doctor made an odd little humming noise and came all over the Master’s neat, clean velvet jacket in response.

“ _Exasperating_ bastard,” the Master amended, as the Doctor rolled off him.

“Don’t forget charming.” The Doctor snuffled against the Master’s throat, in a way that was part charming…and also tickled.

“Humble,” the Master snorted.

“I do try.”

“ _Exhausting_ , exasperating bastard,” the Master corrected.

“In that case,” the Doctor said almost affectionately, “you need to get some sleep.” He pressed a quick peck to the Master’s temple.

The Master sighed contentedly and did so. The Doctor might even have stayed with him for whole minutes afterwards. And, for a flighty Doctor like the Fourth, that was no small gesture.


	5. Thirteenth Doctor/Dhawan!Master & Tecteun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are vague spoilers for 'The Timeless Children' in this chapter, for those still avoiding that sort of thing.

The Twentieth Master stalked in, slamming the door back against the wall, his coat flaring dramatically out behind him.

The Thirteenth Doctor glanced up from the half-assembled components before her, sighed, and pushed her goggles back up onto her forehead.

The Master circled her once, swirling in place at the apogee of his loop for no discernible reason, and then came to a dead stop in front of her.

A beat.

“What?” the Doctor finally asked wearily.

The Master thrust forward one hand, palm upward, offering it to her.

“ _What_?” the Doctor asked more suspiciously this time.

The Master just beckoned to her with his fingers, apparently refusing to speak.

The Doctor rolled her eyes, set aside her torque wrench, and removed her goggles. “This had better be good,” she warned him, and placed her hand in his.

His fingers clenched, just shy of painful, around hers, and he yanked her up to her feet without a word. She squeezed his hand back once as he led her out the door and to her TARDIS, because this wasn’t exactly typical behaviour for him (if any of his behaviour ever _could_ be classified as ‘typical’).

He took her straight to the console and then released her hand. “Observe,” he said, raising one finger before him like an exclamation point.

As she watched, he proceeded to enter the most nonsensical set of coordinates into the TARDIS that she’d ever seen. It seemed that he wanted to go some-where in no-when to a dimension with imaginary coordinates and classified laws of physics. In the real universe, that would have been a lovely recipe for suicide. In the Matrix, the Doctor had no idea what the consequences would be.

“You’re not about to devolve us into time-fractals again?” she demanded, arms crossed over her chest, looking at him unimpressed.

He didn’t take the lead for banter, though, or joke or laugh or loom over her and growl in her face sexily. Instead, he just dematerialised.

She was beginning to think something was seriously wrong. And then something seriously _was_ wrong: the TARDIS started shaking and flickering around them, not just in sense that the power was going on and off, but also that reality faded in and out of existence.

She grabbed for the console as the entire world jolted to one side, and the Master caught her arm to steady her, a cold, knowing look in his eyes as they… Fell? Descended? Exploded? Twisted inside out? The Doctor didn’t know quite how to explain it, since she’d never experienced anything like it before.

“I know you’re rocking the whole cryptic/enigmatic look at the moment,” she informed the Master dryly, “but I might appreciate an explanation one of these days.”

“Matrix data-archive security,” he said tersely. “We’ve just broken through the firewall.” He hit the rematerialiser, and space-time discombobulated one last time, before the TARDIS settled, calm and humming serenely once more.

“Yeah, I don’t mean to criticise, but your explanations suck.”

The Master’s lips twitched, the first sign of good humour he’d shown since their current enterprise had begun, and he headed purposefully for the doors.

The Doctor trailed after him, purely out of curiosity of course.

The Master threw open the TARDIS doors wide and took a deep breath, as if savouring some fresh, crisp mountain air.

In reality, the atrium outside was dark, dank, and neglected, as if it had been long forgotten and half abandoned.

“Are you going to tell me where we are anytime soon?” the Doctor demanded, her patience wearing thin.

“Welcome, my dear Doctor, to the dungeons of the Matrix!” the Master proclaimed with a manic grin. He spread his arms wide as if showing off one of the 700 Wonders of the Universe.

“Wait… Dungeons? Why would the Matrix have dungeons?”

“Dungeons for us,” the Master corrected, and sauntered over to an old, grimy sofa that had clearly seen better days. “You see, we are not supposed to be here. We’re not even supposed to _know_ about here. Here doesn’t exist. Our wise and noble ancestors – well, metaphoric ‘ancestors’ – decided to keep the existence of these Matrix denizens from us. You see, it’s all designed to deter us, to keep us from looking at what’s right under our noses.” He let out a deranged little giggle. “You know, I’ve always wanted to do this…” And then he shouted, at the top of his lungs, “ _Let there be light!_ ”

An impressive telepathic pulse throbbed through the atrium in response, and then suddenly – as if a perception filter had been lifted – the lights came on, the grime and decay on the surfaces receded, and they stood in a Matrix mindscape atrium that could have been either of their own. Well, maybe the colours still looked a _bit_ dated.

The Master flopped back onto the now-impeccable sofa and looked up at the Doctor smugly. “See? I take you to all the nicest places.”

“Lucky me. I always wanted to see a hotel lobby, but somehow I’d never got the chance.”

The Master jutted out his lower lip and pouted up at her. “Don’t you like it? Honestly, I ask for so little, and I give you so much…”

“You ask for _everything_ ,” the Doctor corrected.

“And sometimes you don’t even give it!” the Master complained, ridiculously. He seemed in a better mood now. Although, knowing him, that could change in a heartsbeat.

“So,” the Doctor teased with a sly smile, and moved to stand before him, “whose atrium is this?”

He eyed her up and down and grinned. “Does it matter?”

“Might matter to whether you’re getting shagged. I take it that is the point of all this? That little challenge our various incarnations having been playing at?”

“Why, Doctor!” the Master said in wide-eyed mock innocence. “Are you propositioning me? How risqué! I am shocked. Shocked, I say.”

“You’re a pain in my arse,” the Doctor grumbled and plopped herself down onto his lap, straddling his thighs on the sofa.

“Well, if that’s how you like it, I’m not one to deny a lady…”

The Doctor groaned at the terrible joke, and kissed him before he could say anything else to annoy her. He was, in point of fact, a delightful kisser. There was something about kissing someone so desperate for her, the way he surrendered immediately and entirely, the way he clung in all the right places, the strained little whimpers that sounded from the back of his throat as her tongue teased his into their eternal dance.

The Doctor ground down against him, cradling his chin between her palms now so that she could control the depth of their kiss. She quite liked being atop him like this, setting and choosing the pace.

He was already hard and eager beneath her, and the friction of his cock against the junction of her thighs was delicious, even through their clothes.

She slipped one hand between their bodies and fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers, while he flung his head back on the backrest of the sofa, eyes shut, and let out helpless little whimpers.

“Thanks ever so for helping,” the Doctor complained, and finally got him open. She pulled his cock free of his pants, thick and snug and very contented to find himself nestled in her palm, so it seemed. Unable to resist teasing him just a little – okay, fine, a _lot_ – she gave him an evil grin and said, “Just a mo,” before climbing back off him, leaving him sprawled there with his dick hanging out.

He let out an outraged snort and shot open furious eyes. She’d only worked one leg free of her culottes, but as he lunged up for her, she planted her still-booted foot onto his shoulder (useful things, these culottes: the legs could come off, for sex, while leaving the boots on, for running) and forced him back down onto the sofa.

“Can’t you wait three whole seconds?” she demanded, exasperated.

“After all these eons, do you really have to _ask_?” he retorted.

“Fair enough. I walked into that one, didn’t I? Now: sit down and do as you’re told.”

“Ooh, bossy!” The Master shivered and lay back surprisingly compliantly. His cock looked very pleased by this change of events. “Perhaps I should call you ‘Master’, and you can call me ‘Doctor’.”

The Doctor gauged the odds that he wouldn’t try to topple her if she let him go for even a millisecond, and correctly calculated them at 0%. “Nice try, but you’re not lulling me into a sense of security _that_ easily.” She kept her boot squarely on his shoulder as she knelt her other knee back onto the sofa, straddling him once more. “Also, only you would be so single-minded that the only thing you can think of to roleplay is us.”

“I prefer to think of it as ‘deeply committed’.” The Master licked his lips when she settled back into his lap.

He hadn’t given her the time to get her panties off, and she could feel him nudging against the wetness of them now. With a sigh, she pulled them to the side and slid down onto the very tip of him. It wasn’t ideally comfortable, but one made do when one had an impatient, unpredictable Master at one’s beck and call.

He caught her hips with rough hands and thrusted up into her with a satisfied grunt, as far as he could get inside with one long thrust.

“Not doubting your commitment,” she promised him, and attempted to remove her boot from his shoulder, because that wasn’t exactly the comfiest stretch, but he caught her ankle with one hand and held her in place. “Just the effectiveness of your actions in achieving that end.” She squirmed against him: she couldn’t move the way she wanted in his position, but he couldn’t either. “Almost as though you _like_ being frustrated…”

“Who, me?” the Master asked, wide-eyed.

They continued to half-struggle, half-fuck, until the Doctor finally succeeded in wiggling her boot free, and she fell atop him full-on. The sudden depth of his penetration caused a startled gasp to escape her lips.

“See? Isn’t it better for having been frustrated first?” He grinned at her.

She glared at him, wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him hard. They rocked together – and she still wasn’t entirely sure that he wasn’t fighting her more than helping things along – until she could feel her orgasm clawing ever closer, and—

Up until that moment, she’d forgotten that they were playing a second game, on top of his usual nonsense. (His usual nonsense being as brilliantly diverting as it always was.) Then, however, over his shoulder, she heard a startled gasp and caught a glimpse of a face that might once have been familiar or might not, before the woman spun behind the column and vanished once more down the corridor.

“Hang on!” The Doctor froze, stunned, in the Master’s lap. “Was that _Tecteun_?” Even she couldn’t remember if she actually remembered what Tecteun looked like, or if she only remembered the hidden Matrix data the Master had shown her during their lifespans.

“Oh,” the Master said smugly, “did she see us? _Good_.” He clutched his fingers into the Doctor’s hair and forced her to look back down at him. “Let her see that she is nothing to you now. She is irrelevant. You are mine and only mine and always have been and always will be.”

The Doctor gave him a cool, level stare for a good long moment, and then couldn’t help but let out a resigned laugh. “You,” she informed him not unkindly, and rolled her hips until his eyes crossed, “are in serious need of therapy.”

He groaned and nodded. “Say it! Say you’re mine!”

“You’re,” the Doctor repeated contrarily, “mine.”

But apparently that was what he’d wanted anyway, because he came hard and fast, then, bucking up into her in a way that was really quite lovely, shuddering out his pleasure.

The Doctor followed him at a more controlled, set pace, riding him to orgasm like the disorganised mess he was.

She collapsed against him in the aftermath, their foreheads pressed together, panting hot breaths into each other’s faces. Their fingers had tangled into each other’s hair at some point, holding each other in place, as if neither trusted the other in those moments afterwards when they were both vulnerable and exposed.

Finally, the Master released her to stretch and yawn. The Doctor rolled off his lap to sit beside him and took the opportunity to straighten her clothing. And then, since the Master seemed to have no sense of decency, she put him back properly in his pants and zipped him up, too.

“Well,” he said with a contented sigh, lolling his head to one side against the sofa back so that he looked at her, “I think that went well, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. You might’ve been too subtle. Might want to set everything on fire, just to be sure you got your point across.”

He grinned at her. “I do enjoy recreational arson.”

The Doctor groaned and got up. “You would.” She extended a hand to him. “C’mon, let’s get out of here before Tecteun realises they should be killing us, the same way nearly everyone else in the Matrix does.”

He took her hand and let her pull him up to her feet. “I must admit, I’m disappointed. I was hoping for some filthy Dark Age weaponry. The Era of Rassilon was always portrayed as so much more dynamic in our history classes.”

“As opposed to our Era of Bonkers Renegades, where absolutely nothing ever happens.” The Doctor eyed him askance, then looked around as they made their way to the TARDIS. She was reasonably certain that Tecteun was still lurking out of sight, waiting for them to leave. “It’s also entirely possible that, you know, I still have a certain level of benevolence in my favour. Lingering parental feelings and whatnot.”

The Master snarled and pushed her back through the TARDIS door. “They have no claim to you, parental or otherwise.”

The Doctor sighed and set the coordinates to return them to (somewhat) sanity. “Right,” she agreed. “Whatever you say.”

The Master looked smug at her admission but fundamentally unconvinced. In truth, she doubted that even with eternity she’d have enough time to convince him.

It sure was fun to try, though.


	6. War Doctor/War Master & Ollistra

“I feel like a naughty schoolboy,” the War Doctor complained.

“That is, of course, how this all started,” the War Master replied. “In fact, it’s rather the point of this venture, wouldn’t you agree? If you’ll recall our philosophical debate on the topic of ‘fun’: how it’s something you quite enjoyed in the past, will enjoy again in the future, and are most certainly allowed to enjoy in the here and now.”

The War Doctor scoffed. “Where is the here and now, anyway? What is this place?”

The pair of them looked around their odd surroundings. The TARDIS had landed on a flat paving stone, approximately twenty feet along the edge and perfectly square. The paving stone was abutted, on all four edges, by four darker paving stones, in what looked to be the beginnings of a checkboard pattern. However, each of the adjoining stones held much larger residents. Massive cylindrical ebony columns that took up nearly the entire width of the paving stones towered high into the air, blocking most of whatever light source shone down from above. The effect was rather like being trapped in a forest where all the trees had been lopped off at certain height to remove the canopy branches, or perhaps a giant colonnaded hall that had lost its roof.

“Whatever it is, it certainly is cheery, isn’t it?” the War Master said wryly.

The War Doctor snickered, finding that he was enjoying himself despite himself. “Let’s see if we can’t find something more agreeable.”

If not for the circular nature of the columns, the Doctor and Master wouldn’t have been able to leave their original square. However, they could just barely squeeze between the narrowest gaps between the columns, although it involved some sucking in of their guts in the tightest places.

“Given that we are talking about Ollistra here,” the War Master said with an ‘oof’ as he slid between two columns, “I’m not entirely certain we’re ever going to encounter something remotely approaching ‘agreeable’.”

“Come on, now,” the Doctor called back to him, having already wriggled through the pair of columns ahead, “where’s your sense of adventure?” He paused, while the Master squeezed to catch up. “Aha!” he said, peering around the next column. “It changes ahead.”

They slid through the gap between the last two columns and found themselves on a dark, open paving stone. The one immediately in front of it was pale and contained a nearly invisible object, as if made entirely from glass, approximately waist-high.

The Master squinted and circled the object slowly. He could only make out its form when he happened to be at an angle where the light glinted off it just right.

The Doctor circled around the other way, making his own examination.

The object was circular, like the columns had been, but shorter, thinner, and flatter. It had a thin edge around it, but a tapered one, not sharp, like a blunted disk. Once they’d both circled to the far side of the transparent shape, they could see that there were many more on the paving stones ahead.

“Oh,” the Master said. “Surely not.”

The Doctor frowned for a moment, and then his eyes widened as well. “She wouldn’t.” A considered pause. “Would she?”

“I do believe she has,” the Master agreed. “For some entirely unfathomable reason, our dear Cardinal Ollistra’s vision of eternal tranquillity involves a near-endless supply of miniature Dalek saucers.”

The Doctor rubbed his face wearily. “Yes, well… The War…”

The Master snorted. “Oh, come now. It makes perfectly good sense, and you know it. Can you imagine Ollistra being remotely contented _without_ some enemy to fight and manipulate?”

“Alas, no,” the Doctor conceded. “What should we do?”

The Master rapped on the top of the saucer with his knuckles. It made an odd noise, not glass but not metal either. Something synthetic or plastic, as if it really was a model. “Seems sturdy enough. Hop on.”

The Doctor jerked his head around to look at the Master in shock. “I’m not—!” he protested but trailed off because surely the Master couldn’t be suggesting what he thought.

“Fucking atop a Dalek saucer?” The Master raised an eyebrow. “A metaphysical ‘fuck you’ to all of Dalek-kind? Are you honestly not even tempted?”

The Doctor hesitated. “Well, if I am, I shouldn’t be,” he finally concluded.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.” The Master raised a wry eyebrow. “I’m still waiting, and I do dislike having to repeat myself.”

The Doctor vacillated, shrugged, and hopped up so that he was sitting atop the edge of the Dalek saucer, his legs dangling off the edge. The model, whatever other purpose it might serve, was at least sturdy.

The Master smiled at him, superficially pleasant but sharp and dangerous beneath, and began unfastening his trousers with a series of confident jerks. With an almost resigned sigh, the Doctor lay back, hands folded over his stomach and looked up at the towering domed ceiling above.

“Sorry, my dear,” the Master said archly, “am I boring you?”

“Oh, heaven forfend!” the Doctor said not at all convincingly. He did, however, shift his hips to allow the Master enough access to pull down his trousers so that they were bunched around his ankles, right at the edge of the saucer.

A flare of anger flashed in the Master’s eyes, dark and deep, but rather than taking the Doctor violently, he instead ran one deliberate finger up to the Doctor’s half-hard cock, teasing him with a quick burst of sensation. The Doctor felt a shiver build up his spine as the Master teased him, and by the time the Master’s thumb swirled assiduously around the tip of his erection, his thighs were trembling.

“Oh, get on with it!” he groused, refusing to let the Master see how much he was effected.

The Master just smiled at him knowingly and continued to feather touches over him. It was incongruous, how those callous and calloused hands could be so tender, almost ephemeral in their caresses. But then this Master had always had a talent for wielding kindness as a deadly weapon.

The Doctor refused to squirm – a matter of will and dogged determination – when the Master stroked down to lovingly cup his balls, then play with piano-light-but-firm touches across his perineum.

“What are you playing at this time?” the Doctor demanded, hands balled into fists against the hull of the Dalek saucer to keep from reacting.

The Master arched one eyebrow at the easy set-up the Doctor had given him, but didn’t take the obvious bait. “Do you object?” he asked, with a hint of chuffed laughter in his tone. “I’d have thought”—one teasing finger stretched back to ghost over the Doctor’s opening far too lightly—“that this sort of foreplay”—the finger pressed _almost_ hard enough, just the beginning of teasing the Doctor open—“would be right up your alley.” As fleetingly as it had come, the finger was gone, and the Master returned to stroking the sides of the Doctor’s cock instead.

The Doctor half sat up, propping himself back on his elbows, so that he could glare at the Master with the full force of his displeasure. “Is there any form of torture you don’t delight in?” he snapped peevishly.

The Master let out a hearty belly laugh at that and gave the Doctor’s thigh a playful slap. “You know, I don’t believe there is. At least not one that I’ve discovered thus far.” As if to torment the Doctor further, the Master reached down to grasp his own erection firmly around the base with the hand that wasn’t teasing the Doctor.

The Doctor fought back his reaction at the sight. This had become the new game between them now: the Master doing the absolute opposite of what the Doctor wanted, and the Doctor trying not to get off on how damned contrary the Master could be.

“I’ve been thinking…” the Doctor said, to distract himself from the way the Master’s hand was now fisting himself roughly, fucking his own palm the way he should have been fucking the Doctor.

“Yes?” the Master said in a calm voice that belied how close his cock looked to coming. “Do tell.”

“If the flat, clear pieces are Dalek saucers…”

“Oh, about that? I must not be doing my job well enough, then,” the Master said tightly, and suddenly pressed up against the Doctor’s spread thighs so that his cock brushed over the Doctor’s.

The Doctor’s breath hitched, but he persisted. “…And the paving squares resemble a chessboard…”

“They do, indeed.” The Master grinned down at him, evilly, and his thumb finally pushed inside the Doctor, slowly, relentlessly, driving him to distraction – quite deliberately. “Please continue.”

The Doctor swore and ground down onto the Master’s intrusion. He needed _more_ , damn it, and the Master well knew it.

“Oh dear. At a loss for words? Shall I continue for you?” The Master ground his cock, low and slow and thick, along the crease of the Doctor’s thigh, still _teasing_ , the contemptable bastard!

The Doctor was unable to bite back the groan that escaped his lips and bucked back against the Master’s hand and body for leverage.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the Master said with supreme smugness. He removed his hand from his own cock entirely now, and instead rutted in a calm, steady rhythm against the Doctor’s thigh, looking largely unaffected but for the covetous fury in his eyes. “If we are Ollistra, and we are playing chess, and the Dalek saucers are the white pieces, then”—he twisted his hips suddenly, hard and insidious, so that their cocks ground together—“the black cylinders can only be, well, _TARDISes_. In their default, factory shape, of course.”

“You don’t say?” The Doctor somehow managed to keep the desperation out of his tone enough to sound blasé about the Master’s taunting.

The Master scowled down at his continued defiance.

And the Doctor grabbed the Master by the vest _hard_ and yanked him – with a surprised yelp – down on top of the Doctor, using his full strength.

They squirmed and tangled together atop the Dalek saucer, and the Doctor finally got the friction he needed to come sharply against the Master’s hipbone, staining his trousers as he did so.

A wild lock of hair flopping down on his forehead and waistcoat beautifully dishevelled, the Master snarled down at the Doctor, and thrust quickly three times before he came as well. He gasped out as he did so – whether in defeat or victory, not even the Doctor was certain.

Their struggle resolved (for the time being, at least), the two of them slumped together atop the Dalek saucer in an exhausted heap. The Doctor felt them both drifting, their minds intertwined now.

However, before they could fall asleep, a low vibration shook the Dalek saucer beneath them.

The Master found the energy to raise his head and frowned in the direction from which the impact had come. “You don’t think…?” he trailed off.

A second quake followed, this time closer. The Doctor looked up as well. The Dalek saucer on the square next to theirs was quivering, as if something seismic had shaken it. “If we are playing chess with saucers and TARDISes…” he agreed.

And then, suddenly from above, a dark shadow descended, like an eclipse blotting out the sun. The Doctor and the Master barely had time to jolt up to seated positions before the giant black cylinder crashed down, with crushing finality, upon the Dalek saucer on the next square over. The Dalek saucer shattered on impact, spewing flying shards of the clear synthetic polymer outward in a halo.

The Doctor and the Master both raised up protective arms to cover their faces from the worst of the fallout. Above, the looming shadow lingered and then slowly withdrew, only to reveal that it was a gigantic hand, playing the chessboard above as if the two of them had shrunk to the size of ants.

The Doctor and the Master shared a quick, anxious look – in perfect accord for once – and _ran_ , yanking up their trousers as they did so. No sooner had they fled the saucer than the giant hand lifted the TARDIS on the square next to it and used it to grind the saucer they’d just been atop to dust.

The Master tripped onto the square the TARDIS had just occupied, and the Doctor caught him by the waist, dragging him back up to his feet and still running as fast as he could.

The light above darkened further, and the Doctor spared one glance upwards to see an Ollistra of gargantuan proportions leaning over the chessboard, squinting down at them. Something that the Doctor could only assume was her voice boomed, too low with their comparatively tiny sizes to hear properly.

However, Ollistra also spoke telepathically, and her words rattled their minds as they continued to flee back towards the Doctor’s TARDIS, “You? So you _did_ make it! Excellent. More pawns for me!”

The Doctor and the Master ducked between two TARDIS game pieces as the shadow of Ollistra’s great hand descended once again. The Doctor ducked abruptly to one side, tugging on the Master’s wrist to pull him along, and they escaped between two different TARDISes just as Ollistra grasped the one they’d just rounded.

They stumbled into a clearing, and around the bend of the two black TARDIS pieces in front of them, the Doctor could just see the hint of blue. However, Ollistra’s mind quavered at the same moment as she spotted the irregular TARDIS upon her board. Even as the Doctor and the Master ran for the blue box, Ollistra’s hand came down upon it.

They dashed inside just as her fingers snatched it up. For one harrowing moment, the TARDIS’ walls squeezed inwards as her fingertips began to slowly crush it, and then the Master threw the dematerialisation circuits, and they faded from Ollistra’s mind.

Still panting raggedly – the Master half-sprawled over the console, and the Doctor collapsed across the floor – they looked at each other in stunned disbelief.

And then, simultaneously, developed a horrible case of the giggles.

“Stop it!” the Master complained, wheezing and gasping, still slumped across the demateriliser, his shoulders shaking with mirth.

“You started it!” the Doctor insisted, snickering giddily into his hands. “If I didn’t feel like a naughty schoolboy before, I certainly do now!”

The Master let out a startled guffaw at that, and slid down to the floor beside the Doctor. “Do you remember when we…?” he began, but then he lost his words for laughter again.

The Doctor did, of course. Every single last time they’d been caught out at the Academy for ‘disruptive behaviour’ because the Master had _always_ had a knack for getting them into stupid, ridiculous situations, and the Doctor could not stop laughing.

By the time their respiratory bypasses started to hurt, the Doctor finally managed to break the giggle loop enough to breathe again. “You are a terrible instigator, you know,” he informed the Master sternly. “Always getting me into trouble.”

“Oh, of course,” the Master agreed, “because you’d never get into trouble on your own.”

“Quite,” the Doctor said. “Now where shall we get into trouble next?” And spun the randomiser gleefully.


	7. Twelfth Doctor/Missy & the Monk

“Shh!” Missy said, raising one red-painted talon to her lips.

“Why are we being quiet,” the Twelfth Doctor rolled his eyes, “when the whole point of this endeavour is to get caught?”

Missy glared at him, hands on hips. “Must you argue with everything we do?” she demanded.

“Must you?” he retorted, in fine fighting form tonight.

Missy licked her lips and eyed him up and down until he blushed. “That’s it,” she concluded. “Right here.”

“Right here, where—ahhhhh!” The Doctor had been gesturing to the empty atrium around them before Missy had swept the tip of her umbrella into his ankles and sent him tumbling to the marble-tiled floor.

“Yum,” she announced, falling down on top of him, fisting her hands into his shirt to hold his chest down and pressing her ear against one of his frantically beating hearts with a contented sigh. Her skirts flared out in an arc on the floor around them, where she was straddling his waist.

“What?” he objected. “ _Here_?”

“Were you hoping for the bridal suite?” she taunted. “Roses? Champagne for two? My, you are demanding, aren’t you?”

The Doctor sputtered, and Missy put an abrupt end to his indignation by shoving her tongue into his open mouth. He didn’t exactly cooperate after that, mind, but at least he was noticeably quieter.

Apparently still not quiet enough, though, because before Missy could molest him properly, a supremely whiny voice demanded, “What _is_ this?” in a pitch designed to make her ears bleed.

Reluctantly, Missy pulled her tongue back out of the Doctor’s throat, and raised her head to glare at the interloper (well, technically rightful inhabitant – but who was keeping track?). “Do you _mind_?” she demanded with a sniff. “I’m trying to get my rocks off here, so to speak.”

“Mind?” the Monk repeated, and then with a near-hysterical squeal: “ _Mind_? What, it’s not enough that you cannibalised my TARDIS for parts, ruined a full dozen of my – exceptionally brilliant, need I say? – plans, and abducted me on a crazed murder spree across half the galaxy? Oh no!” he bemoaned. “Now you have to crash my afterlife too, you and your…do-gooding floozy.” He shook a disgusted hand in the Doctor’s general direction.

“The _Monk_?” the Doctor said, outraged.

“That’s not my name!” the Monk protested. “I never chose that name! I refuse to respond to it!”

“It’s your name,” Missy insisted. “Deal with it.”

“I will not!” the Monk sputtered.

“You took me on a date to the _Monk’s_ mind?” the Doctor repeated, incredulous.

Missy let out a frustrated sigh and glared at the Doctor out of the corner of her eye. “Oh, don’t you start in, too,” she grumbled.

“No,” the Monk wailed in his usual overdramatic, hysterical way, “he absolutely _should_ start in! You’re an absolute menace. I had thought that, perhaps in death, I might be free of you at long last. But oh no, of course not! When do I ever get that lucky?”

Missy pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut tight. “Could you, maybe, stop whinging for five whole seconds? Is that too much to ask?”

“Oh, _I’m_ the one who’s whinging, am I?” the Monk whinged even louder. “Even though _you’re_ the one who broke into _my_ mind! But no, I’m just supposed to suffer in silence. Fine, you win. I don’t know why I ever bother _trying_ to be reasonable, when you’ll just do whatever you want, the same way you always have done, with no one to stop you now that you’ve finally bagged yourself the Doctor—”

“Hey!” the Doctor objected to the accurate characterisation of exactly how terrible he’d become at stopping Missy from doing, well, _anything_.

“—So don’t pay me any mind,” the Monk continued, seemingly endlessly, and given his respiratory bypass, it was entirely possible he _could_ go on forever. “This is will just be my afterlife from now on. Oh, go ahead and consummate whatever filthy habits you’ve picked up from those humans you’re both so obsessed with. I’ll just sit over here and endure it, the way I have been cursed to do all my lives. Never a thought for the rest of the universe when it comes to the two of you, is there? No, no, you’ll just continue on and on and on, oblivious to all the other lives you make absolutely miserable in your wake, and—”

Missy felt herself beginning to develop a headache. “Would you shut up already?” she snapped.

“—And I’m not even allowed to so much as complain, while the two of you roll all over my mindscape with your bestial proclivities, and—”

Missy winced. There was absolutely no way it was physically possible to get in the mood with the Monk’s voice droning monotonously about his “woe to woe” with his “sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan” in the background. (“Was that _Shakespeare_?” the Doctor demanded, entirely missing the point.)

Missy could gag the Monk, of course, but he’d get out of it as soon as she’d gone back to the Doctor, and then the snivelling would return. And she couldn’t even kill him, curse the Matrix!

The Doctor’s eyebrow was rising with each second the Monk’s run-on bellyaching dragged on, and he didn’t look much like he would be getting it up in the near future, either.

Missy and the Doctor shared a look of perfect understanding and scrambled back up from the floor.

“—Of course, I do _try_ to do my best given the circumstances. But there’s only so much one Time Lord can take, when even in death, one is beleaguered—”

Together, the Doctor and Missy all but fled back to the TARDIS, the Monk following doggedly right behind them.

“—And I don’t think it’s really so _very_ much to ask for just a _little_ peace and tranquillity in the afterlife, but – oh no – not for _me_ , of course. I have to suffer in death as I did in life and—”

Missy froze at the TARDIS door, turned abruptly, and shut the Monk up with a hand slapped over his mouth.

He gulped once and paused momentarily in his diatribe when she glared at him with death in her eyes.

Then she sighed wearily and said, “Guess what? It’s finally your lucky day. There is absolutely no way any of us ever – ever, ever, _ever_ – will be able to have sex in your mindscape with you constantly prattling on like that. You”—she bit her lip because it _hurt_ to say it, but finally she managed to blurt in out—“win. Bye.” She slammed the TARDIS door shut in his face.

The Monk rubbed at his nose and watched, bemused, as the TARDIS dematerialised.

And then, once it was gone, he chuckled to himself and twirled the end of his moustache between his fingertips. “Come back soon now, you hear!” he called out smugly.

***

Back in the TARDIS, the Doctor glared at Missy. But then, the Doctor glared at everything, so that really wasn’t indicative of much.

Missy let out a relieved sigh, massaged her temples once at the blissful quiet that now surrounded them, and stepped up to the controls. “Let’s find ourselves a more suitable mind, shall we?” she asked with a brittle smile.

“Oh, by all means,” the Doctor said with superb sarcasm, “wherever you like.”

Missy grinned. “Oh Doctor,” she tisked, “you don’t know what you’ve just agreed to…”

And landed the TARDIS with a thud of finality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel sorry for the poor Meddling Monk, getting pwned by Missy constantly, so here is his one shining moment of triumph. And, yes, this 'chapter' is mostly just a teaser scene before the real finale next chapter, but I couldn't resist sneaking it in.
> 
> Credit to [Shakespeare Sonnet #30](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet_30) for “And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er / The sad account of fore-bemoanèd moan”. It is some of the best poetic whinging I've ever read, and so I always imagine Rufus Hound's Monk reciting it. (Big Finish, if you ever want to record him doing so, I will pay money!)


	8. Third Doctor/Delgado&Ainley!Master/Fifth Doctor, Tenth Doctor/Simm!Master, Twelfth Doctor/Missy & Rassilon

“Come now,” Missy said, her heels clacking on the polished marble tiles, “chop, chop!” She clapped twice, and the echoes reverberated down the seemingly endless hallowed hallways.

The Twelfth Doctor had been slumping along behind her, already dreading whatever latest disaster she’d just materialised them into, but then froze suddenly.

“Do try to keep up!” Missy turned back to look at him, annoyed until she saw his expression. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“I just thought I heard…” the Twelfth Doctor began, but as much as he strained his ears, he couldn’t make out anything now.

Missy snorted and continued marching determinedly through the forum.

A moment’s pause, and the Twelfth Doctor scrambled after her again.

***

The sound of two sharp claps echoed throughout the Panopticon.

“Wait,” the Tenth Doctor said, yanking back on the Eighteenth Master’s arm, “did you hear that?”

The Eighteenth Master turned slowly to look first at the Doctor’s hand upon his arm and then up at the Doctor’s face. “If that was meant to be a diversion, it was a disgraceful one, even for you,” he said dryly.

“No, I’m serious!” the Tenth Doctor insisted. “Just listen.” And then he shouted out “ _Hello_!” at the top of his lungs, so that the echoes ricocheted around the columns surrounding them in a deafening cacophony.

The Master winced at the racket, and before the Tenth Doctor could shout out something even more ridiculous, suddenly snapped his hand out so that he was clutching the Doctor’s wrist instead, and pulled him into a muffled “oomph!” of a kiss.

The Doctor melted into his arms in a most satisfactory manner, and the Master rewarded him by biting hard on his lower lip when they finally pulled apart. After all, just because the two of them were stupidly in love didn’t mean the Master had _gone soft_ on this Doctor or anything so disgraceful.

The Tenth Doctor looked just as delighted to have been bitten as to have been kissed. The Master felt his stupid hearts going soft again at the very thought. Curse this Doctor and his ability to turn the Master into a blithering mess!

“We’re going this way,” the Master ordered as sternly as he could manage.

“Right…” the Tenth Doctor said, looking as disobedient as ever, as he glanced back over his shoulder at where he thought he’d heard the noise.

Damn, the Master hated how much he loved this Doctor! And chased after him the moment the Tenth Doctor ran off in his own preferred direction.

***

“Oh now, be reasonable,” the Third Doctor said unreasonably. “Three grown Time Lords cannot all fit atop the Throne of Rassilon at the same time.”

“Yes,” the Fifth Doctor retorted, looking remarkably assertive today, which was such a lovely look on him. “And, seeing as we didn’t technically encounter Rassilon until _my_ time-stream, I should get first rights.”

“Balderdash!” the Third Doctor huffed. “If you’ll recall, all of us were plucked out of our respective timelines concurrently!”

“Into _my_ team-stream!” the Fifth Doctor retorted.

“When you apply Verulia’s Relative Temporal Theorem, I think you’ll find that all time-streams converged and—”

Up until that point, the Thirteenth Master had been quite enjoying the two Doctors’ possessive territorial fight. He really would have to experiment more with sending multiple Doctors convergent rendezvous coordinates in the future. However, he was abruptly forced to turn his attention from the Third Doctor’s exceptionally infuriating condescension at the sound of familiar voices encroaching from multiple directions.

“—know for a fact that you failed Relative Temporal Mechanics twice before barely squeaking by—” The Fifth Doctor had given up waiting for Third Doctor to pause for breath in his pontificating, and had instead chosen to pontificate _over_ him. How magnificent the Doctors all were!

But if the Master tuned the pair of them out, then he could hear even _more_ magnificence inbound.

“—following the echoes back to source _should_ lead us right back to the—” a rather bouncy Doctor’s voice sounded from the hallowed colonnade to the right.

“—if we factor in the reverberation, I think you’ll find that we’re headed in exactly the wrong direction to—” another Doctor-ish voice was grumbling sullenly from the corridor to the left.

The Thirteenth Master licked his lips and sized up his own two Doctors. The Third Doctor now had his index finger raised and was waggling it in the Fifth Doctor’s face. The Fifth Doctor yawned, which caused the Third’s face to turn a lovely shade of puce.

The Master smirked and decided it was finally time to step in between them. “Now, now, my dears,” he said smoothly, slipping into Tremas and black velvet as he did so. “There’s no reason we can’t all get along.”

“Oh, you!” the Third Doctor exclaimed in frustration. “I might’ve known!”

“You’ve done this on purpose, of course,” the Fifth accused.

“If you think either of us will go along with the charade, you’ve become more of a foolish optimist than—”

The Fifth Doctor raised an eyebrow at where the Third Doctor clearly wanted to accuse him. Say what one would about the Fifth Doctor, he wasn’t exactly what one would call a foolish optimist.

“—Some of me,” the Third Doctor conceded grudgingly.

“Oh dear,” the Master said dryly, and picked a bit of imaginary lint off the Third Doctor’s velvet, before turning and giving the Fifth’s celery stalk a bit of much-needed fluffing, “I take it that means neither of you are interested?”

“Preposterous!” the Third Doctor huffed unconvincingly.

“Don’t be absurd,” said the Fifth Doctor in his most untouchable voice.

“Ah well,” the Master said with false regret, “I suppose the rest of me will have to enjoy the spoils, then…” He turned as if to leave.

As if on cue, the Tenth Doctor took that moment to burst upon them, from where he’d been yakking all the way down the side corridor. “—know it was this way, because—” He froze at the sight of another two of him and a Master. “Oh. Hello, there.” His cheeks flushed slightly as if embarrassed at being caught out in the same nefarious purpose they were all obviously up to.

“—Can’t you go five minutes without running off and getting yourself into trouble? Do you _know_ whose mind—?” The Eighteenth Master all but collided with the Tenth Doctor’s back when he came to a sudden halt at the sight of the Thirteenth Master’s party.

At that point, with perfect timing, a pair of sharp heels sounded from the corridor on the far side, and Missy emerged mid-censure, “—if I let _you_ choose the route, we’d been walking in circles for months…” She trailed off, looking equally surprised for find something of a convention of herselves.

“Isn’t that what we’re doing, any…way…” The Twelfth Doctor froze on her heels, eyes wide as he took in the situation.

At that point, simultaneously, the Eighteenth Master narrowed his eyes at Missy, and Missy narrowed her eyes at the Eighteenth Master, and both of them made a mad dash for the Throne of Rassilon, which was situated directly between them.

“First!” shouted the Eighteenth Master as he tagged one arm.

At the exact same time, Missy shouted, “First!” and tagged the other arm.

“Oh, you liar!” the Eighteenth Master insisted. “I got here before you!”

“You did not! And, besides, I came up with the idea of doing Rassilon’s mind first. You probably stole it from me,” Missy accused.

“ _I_ came up with doing Rassilon’s mind first!” the Eighteenth Master retorted. “It doesn’t even make sense that _you_ would pick Rassilon. You never even met him. Whereas, he killed us.” He pointed back to where the Tenth Doctor was creeping up cautiously upon their confrontation.

“Well…” the Tenth Doctor corrected. “Technically…”

“Fine, fine,” the Eighteenth Master waved him off. “He killed you. I, technically, got better.”

The Tenth Doctor scrunched up his face. “ _Well_ …” he said in a slightly more annoying pitch. “ _Technically…_ ”

The Eighteenth Master glared him back into silence.

“Ha!” Missy said. “Even your own Doctor knows _we_ have a better claim.”

“What?” the Eighteenth Master scoffed. “Because your Doctor threw a hissy fit and booted him in the rump once?”

The Twelfth Doctor sputtered. “That isn’t what happened at all!” he insisted.

“No, no, of course not, dear,” Missy waved him off. “He’s just jealous because _he_ didn’t boot Rassilon off Gallifrey. Rather the reverse, if I recall,” she dug in snidely.

“Which just goes to prove my point that _I_ should get to screw over his mind. Or screw all over his mind, as the case may be,” the Eighteenth Master concluded triumphantly. “And need I remind you, I take precedence because my mind literally comes _before_ yours!”

“Well, by that logic, _he_ has precedence before both of us,” Missy inclined her head in the Thirteenth Master’s direction, where he stood with his pair of Doctors marvelling at how exactly how much more mature he would get with age.

“But he didn’t tag the throne. I got it first, no takesy-backsies,” the Eighteenth Master argued. “Besides, weren’t you going to go harass the Monk, anyway?”

Missy coughed into her hand and looked away suspiciously. “The Monk? No! What are you talking about? I had no plans to trespass in the Monk’s mind whatsoever. What an absurd idea!”

The Eighteenth Master snorted. “You _do_ realise that you can’t lie to yourself, right? Admit it: you’ve lost this one.” He leaned forward over one arm of Rassilon’s throne to smirk right in her face.

“I will admit no such thing!” Missy leaned over the other throne arm, hands on hips, to sneer right back at him from inches away.

The two of them scowled at each for one moment, and then an equally sly grin curled their lips.

“Hey,” the Eighteenth Master gestured back over his shoulder and snapped his fingers once, “arse-on-legs, get over here.”

The Tenth Doctor groaned and put one palm to his forehead. “Can you not call me that?” he asked resignedly as he slumped his way over to the Eighteenth Master.

Missy snorted. “You think _that’s_ bad? Here, snooky-poo!”

The Twelfth Doctor’s jaw dropped, aghast, and his face flamed bright red. “ _Not in front of the rest of me_!” he hissed.

The other three Doctors stared at him, horrified.

“I swear,” he insisted, “she does _not_ call me that!”

“I’ll start if you don’t get your grumpy puss over here in two seconds,” Missy threatened.

Rarely had a Doctor ever run so fast. No even when Daleks, Cybermen, and Weeping Angels had been chasing them, all at the same time.

“Sit,” Missy ordered, pointing to the throne arm she’d been leaning on. The Twelfth Doctor sat.

“Sit,” the Eighteenth Master ordered, sitting upon the other throne arm himself and pointing to his lap. The Tenth Doctor had looked like he was about to object up until that point. It was _really_ hard for him to resist a Master’s lap, though. With a sigh, he sat as well, straddling the Eighteenth Master’s hips.

“Upsy-daisy!” Missy chirped cheerfully, and hopped up and wrapped her legs around the Twelfth Doctor’s waist so that she was in his lap, as well. With the Eighteenth Master and the Twelfth Doctor now sitting back-to-back on opposite arms of the throne, that meant that now Missy and the Tenth Doctor could see each other over their partners’ shoulders. Missy blew the Tenth Doctor a kiss.

The Tenth Doctor gulped and shifted uncomfortably on the Eighteenth Master’s lap.

“What?” the Eighteenth Master growled suspiciously, and turned back to glare at Missy over his shoulder. “Did she threaten you or try to seduce you?”

“Um…both?” the Tenth Doctor guessed uncertainly. “Maybe?”

Missy gave him a saucy wink and then made a throat-slitting motion with one of her fingers.

“Menace your own Doctor!” the Eighteenth Master demanded, outraged.

“Make me!” Missy said defiantly.

The Eighteenth Master narrowed his eyes, reached back, and grabbed hold of the Twelfth Doctor’s nape, pulling him back so that the Eighteenth Master could place a loud, obnoxious smack right on his lips.

The Twelfth Doctor flailed and sputtered (but tellingly didn’t wipe his mouth) when he pulled free and back into Missy’s embrace.

Missy let out a cry of outrage and promptly kissed the Twelfth Doctor breathless to reassert her claim.

The Eighteenth Master seemed to think that was an excellent idea and kissed an equally outraged Tenth Doctor in the exact same way.

At that point, quite a lot of fumbling with trousers and one skirt and various assorted undergarments ensued, and groping and frotting began in earnest.

The Third and Fifth Doctors, who had been observing the spectacle with morbid curiosity, exchanged a nervous look and backed slowly away.

“Well, that settles that, then,” the Third Doctor said awkwardly.

“Quite.” The Fifth Doctor had paled and looked to be on the verge of running away to preserve his innocent eyes (or leaping into the fray at letting all his base impulses run rampant).

It was a particularly strategic moment in which the Thirteenth Master, having bode his time well, coughed into his hand twice: “Bok. Bok.”

The Fifth Doctor froze, back stiff.

The Third Doctor looked at the Thirteenth Master sharply in disbelief. “What was that?” he demanded, rubbing the sweat from his upper lip nervously.

“Me?” the Thirteenth Master said innocently. “Why, I didn’t say a thing. Just clearing my throat, my dear.”

“Oh no,” the Third Doctor said, “you’re not fooling me that easily.”

“I heard you quite clearly as well,” the Fifth Doctor insisted.

“Ah well,” the Thirteenth Master said magnanimously. “You must admit that it is ironic that both of you were more than eager to perform, as it were, to Rassilon’s dismay. And yet you both balk at the very notion that you, yourself, might catch sight of your own intimacies.”

He stepped between the pair of them, towards where his two future incarnations were quite absorbed in their own Doctors. Missy, in particular, had somehow got her skirts hitched up around the Twelfth Doctor’s thighs and war rocking atop his lap while moaning into his mouth in a way that was really quite suggestive. He admired the aesthetic of that for a moment – his future self – all but devouring her Doctor, and then turned his attention to where the Tenth Doctor was riding the Eighteenth Master with obvious enthusiasm, looking as eager as a blushing schoolboy about to come in his trousers. In truth, the Thirteenth Master wasn’t entirely certain which he preferred: to be all over the Doctor, or to have the Doctor all over him. It was quite the conundrum.

“I don’t,” the Fifth Doctor said tightly, right at the Thirteenth Master’s shoulder, “ _balk_.” And then he stalked right up to the Throne of Rassilon and leaned forward to place his palms upon the seat, right in the middle, between the Eighteenth Master’s and Twelfth Doctor’s backs. He looked back at the Thirteenth Master over his shoulder and waggled his arse enticingly.

The Thirteenth Master couldn’t help but smirk, and he stalked up behind the Fifth Doctor, pressing his front to the Fifth Doctor’s back, and carefully slipping his hands up under the Fifth Doctor’s jacket, unfastening his braces, and drawing the Doctor’s trousers and pants slowly down for his pleasure. It was to be himself atop the Doctor this evening, then. How delightful.

He loosed his own cock from his trousers and lined himself up with the Fifth Doctor’s pliant body. However, before he could press his way home, a sudden heat against his back stopped him in his tracks.

“Oh, don’t _gloat_ ,” the Third Doctor said peevishly, and slid one hand possessively over the Thirteenth Master’s buttocks from behind. “It’s exceptionally unattractive.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” the Thirteenth Master said hoarsely, and leaned back into the Third Doctor’s arms enough to feel the Third Doctor’s excitement against his cleft. It seemed he would have a Doctor atop him, as well. That was best, he thought: both pleasures at once.

He entered the Fifth Doctor with a proprietary thrust, settling with comforting familiarity into his Doctor’s body. The Fifth Doctor moaned raggedly and rested his head down upon his forearms so that he could both hide his face and rock back wantonly into the Master’s thrusts.

Behind, the Thirteenth Master could feel the Third Doctor fumbling his fingers into the Master. It was as if, now committed to their quaint little impromptu orgy, he was overly eager to join in.

“Late to the orgy, are we?” the Thirteenth Master couldn’t help but tease him.

“Oh, do be quiet,” the Third Doctor said, sounding no more than slightly put out, and then he withdrew his fingers from the Master with a gentleness that belied his words and instead rammed his way in with his cock.

The force of Third Doctor’s thrust caused the Thirteenth Master to jolt forward in response, directly into the Fifth Doctor, who continued to moan like a cheap whore unnecessarily loudly, the way he always did.

On the throne arm next to the Fifth Doctor’s head, Missy whimpered, “I’d forgotten just how _loud_ that one is up close,” and jolted up sharply in the Twelve Doctor’s lap, eliciting a sharp hiss from his lips as he tried to grab hold of her hips for dear life as she rode him at double-pace.

The Eighteenth Master, on the opposite throne arm, stiffened. He and the Tenth Doctor were having the most frustrated time of it, since neither of them had bothered to get the Tenth Doctor’s trousers off. However, in a stroke of absolute brilliance, the Eighteenth Master shoved down on the Tenth Doctor’s shoulders, causing him to drop down onto his knees beside the throne. Quick study that the Tenth Doctor had always been, he leaned forwards to lick at the head of the Master’s cock, his hands pressing outwards on the Eighteenth Master’s thighs to spread them open and give him better access.

“Good…” the Eighteenth Master breathed raggedly, settling his hands into the Tenth Doctor’s hair and guiding his head as he started sucking the Master slow and deep. There were definite advantages to having a Doctor with no apparent gag reflex.

The Fifth Doctor had now turned his head to once side on his forearms so that he could watch his Tenth incarnation’s attentiveness to oral hygiene (or possibly also so that Missy’s wildly flailing skirts didn’t keep hitting him in the face from the other side of the throne). “I can’t help but feel,” he said, as he was buggered by a Master, who was in turn buggered by a Doctor, while watching himself go down and sloppy on another Master, while yet a third Master rode another him like a bucking bronco on the other side, “that this is not entirely dignified.”

“You surpass your gift for understatement, as always,” the Thirteenth Master groaned.

“Yes, well,” the Fifth Doctor continued. “You see, the problem with that is…”

The Fifth Doctor didn’t get any further with that statement, since at that point the natural consequence of doing something not entirely dignified took hold of him, and he came hard and fast, right across the seat of Rassilon’s throne.

His orgasm had a chain reaction: his internal muscles tightened around the Thirteenth Master, causing him to come, which in turn caused the Thirteenth Master’s internal muscles to tighten, which set the Third Doctor off as well. The three of them all coming in a messy heap together set off both Missy and the Eighteenth Master, Missy around the Twelfth Doctor, who reciprocated double-heartedly, and the Eighteenth Master straight down the Tenth Doctor’s throat, which caused the Tenth Doctor come into his own hand where he’d been jerking himself off at the base of the throne.

That was, of course, the perfect time for Rassilon to converge upon the scene of their debauchery. Several of his incarnations, in point of fact.

The Eighteenth Master looked up from where he’d been petting the Tenth Doctor’s hair, to see his own personal Rassilon-in-the-side, the bastard who’d stuck the drums in his head and he’d forced to regenerate in exchange for being dragged screaming back into the time lock.

Across from him, the Twelfth Doctor scowled at the Rassilon he’d forcibly ejected from Gallifrey.

Collapsed over the seat of the throne, the Third Doctor finally pulled out and cracked his back, only to see the last of the original Rassilons from his Tomb in the Death Zone, frozen in flabbergasted disbelief in the main corridor.

“Oh,” the Third Doctor said, “dear.”

With assorted levels of post-orgasmic haze, the Doctors and Masters who had piled atop Rassilon’s throne, each rose to their feet, fixed their pants back up, and finally stepped away from the throne to reveal the absolute mess they’d made of it.

One by one, the Rassilons’ shock turned to scowls turned to murderous fury.

And then the Doctors and Masters, with delighted expressions all around like the agents of complete chaos they all were, all shouted out, simultaneously, “Run!” They darted between the outraged Rassilons and the assorted columns of the hallowed halls of Gallifrey, in half a dozen different directions every which way, bobbing and weaving, racing with hearts pumping and post-orgasmic endorphins still flowing, towards freedom, and laughing wildly all the way.


	9. Epilogue: Masterplan, Part 3

“Made it!” Missy’s biodata streamed through the wall into the atrium of her mindscape. She reconstituted first herself, and then the Twelfth Doctor and his TARDIS beside her. She slumped back onto the tile floor with a deranged little giggle and raised one hand up into the air in a V for victory.

Before the Twelfth Doctor could open his mouth to yell at her properly for how unnecessarily dangerous that had been, a vworping sounded to their right. They both looked over to see a TARDIS materialise, and the Fifth Doctor stumble out.

“Safe?” he asked hopefully, still panting for breath. It looked like one of the Rassilons had singed his celery, poor dear.

Missy gave him an overly bright smile and a thumb’s up.

At that point, a second data-stream burst through the opposite wall of the Master’s atrium. Missy watched it solidify into the form of the Eighteenth Master, crouched down low as if he’d just been avoiding gunfire, eyes darting nervously one way and then the other, before he rose gracefully to his feet, dusted off his sleeve, and said, seemingly bored, “Well, that was easy.”

A second TARDIS materialised, careening sideways through the atrium and narrowly missing two columns as it spun obliquely, before settling down with a jolting crash in the far corner. They all frowned and watched as apparently the door was jammed from the inside – possibly due to the scorch marks upon the TARDIS hull – but then with a rattle, the door finally opened, and out spilled the Third Doctor and Thirteenth Master, looking none of the worse for wear.

Finally, rather anti-climactically, one last TARDIS materialised in another corner of the atrium, slowly and nearly silently, as if it were trying to move on tiptoes. Hesitantly, the door opened, and the Tenth Doctor peered out nervously. “Everyone okay?” he asked upon surveying the Master’s mind and finding all present and accounted for.

“Perfectly,” the Twelfth Doctor said, now able to rant again since the immediate threat had passed, “despite how outrageously, inappropriately dangerous that was! Do you know that I could actually feel my biodata warp when Rassilon’s shots got too close?!”

Missy shrugged, still lying back on the floor. “Yeah, well. They don’t call him a Matrix Lord for nothing.”

“Oh, well that’s a relief!” The Twelfth Doctor was now scowling down at her to the full of his ability, which was quite impressive scowling, indeed. His eyebrow gymnastics might’ve qualified as a new Olympic sport. “I suppose that means that he can, in fact, kill us permanently.”

“Eh,” Missy said, and waved off his concern disinterestedly.

“More than that!” the Third Doctor blustered in. “He _chased_ us! After we’d left his mindscape, through the outer Matrix, _after we’d dematerialised_!”

“That erratic nonsense you call ‘flying’ was more than adequate to shake him off,” the Thirteenth Master said dryly. “There’s no need for hysterics.”

The Third Doctor gaped at him, as if there weren’t words to express exactly how impossible the Master was, which was – of course – true.

“More to the point,” the Tenth Doctor said, “I was right behind you.” He raised an eyebrow in the Eighteenth Master’s direction. “And he was _following you_.”

The Eighteenth Master snorted. “Oh dear. Was he really?” He buffed his fingernails on his sleeve, looking supremely unconcerned.

“Do _none_ of you care that we could’ve all got killed?” the Tenth Doctor asked in wide-eyed disbelief. “Actually, _properly_ killed? No, pass-go-return directly to your own mindscape. Real, literal _danger_.”

“Oh, you Doctors must’ve just _hated_ that,” Missy retorted. “I’m sure none of you got off on it at _all_.”

All the Doctors were very tellingly silent for a moment.

“Well, _yes_ ,” a flurry of grudging admissions all came out at once.

“So very predictable, my dears,” the Thirteenth Master said, and affectionately wiped an imaginary speck of dust from the Third Doctor’s shoulder.

“But that’s beside the point,” the Third Doctor insisted unconvincingly.

“Is it?” The Thirteenth Master raised one eyebrow.

The assembled Doctors had little to say to that for one moment. Until:

“The lot of you act like…” The Fifth Doctor’s face paled in sudden realisation. “Oh dear,” he said.

“Go on…” the Thirteenth Master encouraged him with a manic grin. “Say it.”

The Fifth Doctor winced. “You did it on purpose,” he concluded.

And, before any of the Doctors could properly react to the insanity of _that_ , the substructure of the Matrix trembled, as if something big and terrible was approaching.

“Oh no,” the Tenth Doctor said, as Rassilon’s telepathic aura settled thick and heavy, heaping into the Master’s mindscape. “He followed you, because of course he followed you, because you _led him here_.”

The Eighteenth Master grinned unabashedly.

“Why would you even? You have intentionally riled up the one person in all the Matrix who can actually destroy us,” the Twelfth Doctor accused Missy.

She blushed with pleasure and nodded demurely.

“You absolute, complete lunatic,” the Third Doctor concluded in a mixture of awe and despair.

“Yes, well,” the Thirteenth Master said with false modesty, “I do try.” He raised his hands up into the air where the full force of Rassilon’s rage was just now slamming down upon them. “Welcome, Doctors!” He laughed maniacally. “To my masterplan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heading into my finale here. There will be one last additional fic that I'm going to sneak in before these last few, for reasons (see: I'm bad at planning, and there's something else that I'm going to need for Masterplan before I start posting that), and then I'll finally finish up the Master's latest OTT scheme. My goal is to get everything posted before Christmas, because I know I'll be super busy over the holidays and don't want to leave things hanging. Thanks to everyone who's reading along!


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